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TWO   YEARS   AGO. 


BV 


THE  REV.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY, 

AlHHOR    OP    "AMYA8    LEIGH,"   ETC. 


MACM.ILLAN   AND   CO. 

1885. 


CONTENTS.  l'8>55 

WTRODUCTORT, " 

CHAPTER    I. 

POETRY   AND   PROSE, ' 

CHAPTER    II. 

BTILL   LIFE, '^^ 

CHAPTER    III. 

ANYTHING    BUT   STILL   LIFE, 42 

CHAPTER   IV. 

FLOTSOM,    JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND, .      .     56 

CHAPTER  V. 

TlIE    WAY    TO   WIN   THEM, .       .       .       •      .     81 

CHAPTER     VI. 
AN    OLD    FOE   WITH    A    NEW    FACE, 94 

CHAPTER    VII. 

LA    CORDIFIAMMA, 100 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

TAKING   ROOT, llfi 

CHAPTER   IX. 

"AM    I    NOT   A    WOMAN    AND   A   SISTER?" .   133 

CHAPTER    X. 

THE   RECOGNITION 148 

CHAPTER    XI. 

THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT    OF    AN    OLD   DEBT,    .......   183 

CHAPTER    XII. 

A    PEER   IN    TROUBLE, .       .  200 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
i'homme  incompris, .  209 

672607  '"'" 


TV  CONTENTg. 

CHAPTER    XIV.  P^GH 

TIEB  DOCTOR   AT  BAT .      .  222 

CHAPTER    XV. 

THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   WATEKWITCH 262 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

COME   AT    LAST, 300 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

BAALZEBUB'S    BANQUET, 320 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE  BLACK   HOUND, 889 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

BEDDOELERT, .858 

CHAPTER    XX. 

BOTH    SIDES   OF   THE   MOON    AT    ONCE, 879 

CHAPTER    XXI. 

nature's   MELODRAMA, 403 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH, 422 

CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE   BROAD    STONE   OF   HONOR, 430 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE   THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER, 441 

CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE    BANKER    AND    HIS   DAUGHTER, 463 

CHAPTER    XXVI. 

TOO   LATE, 498 

CHAPTER    XXVII. 

A    RECENT   EXPLOSION    IN    AN    ANCIENT    CRATER, 513 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

LAST   CHRISTMAS  EVE,     ,       .  628 


TWO   YEAES   AGO. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

It  may  seem  a  somewhat  Irish  method  of  beghming  the 
Btory  of  "  Two  Years  Ago  "  by  a  scene  which  happened 
but  a  month  since.  And  yet,  will  not  the  story  be  on  that 
very  account  a  better  type  of  many  a  man's  own  expe- 
riences ?  How  few  of  us  had  learnt  the  meaning  of  "  Two 
Years  Ago,"  until  this  late  quiet  autumn  time  ;  and  till 
Christmas,  too,  with  its  gaps  in  the  old  ring  of  friendly 
face«,  never  to  be  filled  up  again  on  earth,  began  to  teach 
us  somewhat  of  its  lesson. 

Two  years  ago,  while  pestilence  was  hovering  over  us 
and  ours, —  while  the  battle-roar  was  ringing  in  our  ears, — 
who  had  time  to  think,  to  ask  what  all  that  meant ;  to  seek 
for  the  deep  lesson  which  we  knew  must  lie  beneath  ?  Two 
years  ago  was  the  time  for  work  ;  for  men  to  do  with  all 
their  might  whatsoever  their  hands  found  to  do.  But  now, 
the  storm  has  lulled  once  more  ;  the  air  has  cleared  a  while, 
and  we  can  talk  calmly  over  all  the  wonders  of  that  sudden, 
strange,  and  sad  "  Two  Years  Ago." 

So  telt,  at  least,  two  friends  who  went  down,  just  one 
week  before  Christmas-day,  to  Whitbury,  in  Berkshire. 
Two  years  ago  had  come,  to  one  of  them,  as  to  thousands 
more,  the  crisis  of  his  life  ;  and  he  was  talking  of  it  with 
his  companion  ;  and  was  on  his  way,  too,  to  learn  more  of 
that  story,  which  this  book  contains,  and  in  which  he  had 
borne  his  part. 

They  were  both  of  them  men  who  would,  at  first  sight, 
interest  a  stranger.  The  shorter  of  the  two  he  might  have 
seen  before  —  at  picture-sales.  Royal  Academy  meetings, 
dinner-parties,  evening  parties,  anywhere  and  everywherG 
in  town  ;  for  Claude  Mellot  is  a  general  favorite,  and  a  gen- 
eral guest. 

A*  (V) 


VI  INTRODUCTORY. 

He  is  a  tiny,  delicate-featured  man,  with  a  look  of  half 
lazy  enthusiasm  about  his  beautiful  face,  which  reminds 
you  much  of  Shelley's  portrait  ;  only  he  has  what  Shelley 
had  not,  clustering'  auburn  curls,  and  a  rich,  brown  beard, 
soft  as  silk.  You  set  him  down  at  once  as  a  man  of  delicate 
susceptibility,  sweetness,  thoughtfulness  ;  probably  (as  he 
actually  is)  an  artist. 

His  companion  is  a  man  of  statelier  stamp,  tall,  dark,  and 
handsome,  with  a  very  large  forehead.  If  the  face  has  a 
fault,  it  is  that  the  mouth  is  too  small  ;  that,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  face,  too,  and  the  tone  of  voice,  seem  to  indicate 
over-refinement,  possibly  a  too  aristocratic  exclusiveness. 
He  is  dressed  like  a  very  fine  gentleman  indeed,  and  looks 
and  talks  like  one.  Aristocrat,  however,  in  the  common 
sense  of  the  word,  he  is  not ;  for  he  is  a  native  of  the 
Model  Republic,  and  sleeping-partner  in  a  great  New  York 
merchant  firm. 

He  is  chatting  away  to  Claude  Mellot,  the  artist,  about 
Fremont's  election  ;  and,  on  that  point,  seems  to  be  earnest 
enough,  though  patient  and  moderate. 

"  My  dear  Claude,  our  loss  is  gain.  The  delay  of  the 
next  four  years  was  really  necessary,  that  we  might  consol- 
idate our  party.  And  1  leave  you  to  judge,  if  it  have  grown 
to  its  present  size  in  but  a  few  months,  what  dimensions  it 
will  have  attained  before  the  next  election.  We  require  the 
delay,  too,  to  discover  who  are  our  really  best  men,  —  not 
merely  as  orators,  but  as  workers  ;  and  you  English  ought 
to  know,  better  than  any  nation,  that  the  latter  class  of  men 
are  those  whom  the  world  most  needs  ;  that,  though  Aaron 
may  be  an  altogether  inspired  preacher,  yet  it  is  otdy  slow- 
tongued,  practical  Moses,  whose  spokesman  he  is,  who  can 
deliver  Israel  from  their  taskmasters.  Beside,  my  dear  fel- 
low, we  really  want  the  next  four  years  —  '  tell  it  not  in 
Gath '  —  to  look  about  us,  and  see  what  is  to  be  done 
Your  wisest  Englishmen  justly  complain  of  us,  that  our 
'  platform '  is  as  yet  a  merely  negative  one  ;  that  we  define 
what  the  South  shall  not  do,  but  not  what  the  North  shall. 
Ere  four  years  be  over,  we  will  have  a  '  positive  platform,' 
at  which  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  grumble." 

"I  still  think  with  Marie,  that  your  'positive  platform' 
is  already  made  for  you,  plain  as  the  sun  in  heaven,  as  the 
lightnings  of  Sinai.    Free  those  slaves  at  once  and  utterly  !  " 

"  Impatient  idealist !  By  what  means  ?  By  law,  or  bj 
force  ?  Leave  us  to  draw  a  cordon  sanitaire  round  the 
tainted  States,  and  leave  the  system  to  die  a  natural  death, 


INTEODUCTORY.  VH 

as  it  rapidly  will  if  it  be  prevented  from  enlarging  its  field. 
Don't  fancy  that  a  dream  of  mine.  None  know  it  better 
than  the  Southerners  themselves.  What  makes  them  ready 
just  now  to  risk  honor,  justice,  even  the  common  law  of 
nations  and  humanity,  in  the  struggle  for  new  slave  terri 
tory?  What  but  the  consciousness,  that,  without  virgin 
soil,  which  will  yield  rapid  and  enormous  profit  to  slave- 
labor,  they  and  their  institution  must  be  ruined  ?  " 

"  The  more  reason  for  accelerating  so  desirable  a  con- 
Bummation,  by  freeing  the  slaves  at  once." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Stangrave,  with  a  smile.  "  Who  so 
cruel  at  times  as  your  too-benevolent  philanthropist?  Did 
you  ever  count  the  meaning  of  those  words  ?  Disruption  of 
the  Union,  an  invasion  of  the  South  by  the  North  ;  and  an 
internecine  war,  aggravated  by  the  horrors  of  a  general 
rising  of  the  slaves,  and  such  scenes  as  Hayti  beheld  sixty 
years  ago.  If  you  have  ever  read  them,  you  will  pause  ere 
you  determine  to  repeat  them  on  a  vaster  scale." 

"  It  is  dreadful.  Heaven  knows,  even  in  thought !  But, 
Stangrave,  can  any  moderation  on  your  part  ward  it  off"? 
Where  there  is  crime,  there  is  vengeance  ;  and  without 
shedding  of  blood  is  no  remission  of  sin." 

"  God  knows  !  It  may  be  true  ;  but  God  forbid  that  I 
should  ever  do  aught  to  hasten  what  may  come  !  0,  Claude, 
do  you  fancy  that  I,  of  all  men,  do  not  feel  at  moments  the 
thirst  for  brute  vengeance  ?  " 

Claude  was  silent. 

"Judge  for  yourself,  you  who  know  all  —  what  man 
among  us  Northerners  can  feel,  as  I  do,  what  those  hapless 
men  may  have  deserved  ?  I  who  have  day  and  night  before 
me  the  brand  of  their  cruelty,  filling  my  heart  with  fire  ?  I 
need  all  my  strength,  all  my  reason,  at  times,  to  say  to 
myself,  as  I  say  to  others,  '  Are  not  these  slaveholders 
men  of  like  passions  with  yourself?  What  have  they  done 
which  you  would  not  have  done  in  their  place  ?  '  I  have 
never  read  that  Key  to  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  I  will  not  even 
read  this  Dred,  admirable  as  I  believe  it  to  be." 

"Why  should  you?"  said  Claude.  "Have  you  not  a 
key  to  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  more  pathetic  than  any  word  of 
man's  or  woman's  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  that  1  I  will  not  read  them,  because 
I  have  the  key  to  them  in  my  own  heart,  Claude  ;  because 
conscience  has  taught  me  to  feel  for  the  Southerner  as  a 
brother,  who  is  but  what  I  might  have  been ;  and  to  sigh 
over  his  misdirected  courage  and  energy,  not  with  hatred, 


VIII  INTRODUCTORY. 

not  with  contempt ;  but  with  pity,  all  the  more  intense  the 
more  he  scorns  that  pity  ;  to  long,  not  merely  for  the  slaves- 
sake,  but  for  the  masters'  sake,  to  see  them  —  the  once 
chivalrous  gentlemen  of  the  South  —  delivered  from  the 
meshes  of  a  net  which  they  did  not  spread  for  themselves, 
but  which  was  round  their  feet,  and  round  their  fathers', 
from  the  day  that  they  were  born.  You  ask  me  to  destroy 
these  men,     I  long  to  save  them  from  their  certain  doom  !  " 

"  You  are  right,  and  a  better  Christian  than  I  am,  I 
believe.  Certainly  they  do  need  pity,  if  any  sinners  do  ; 
for  slavery  seems  to  be  —  to  judge  from  Mr.  Brooks's 
triumph  —  a  greater  moral  curse,  and  a  heavier  degrada- 
tion, to  the  slaveholder  himself,  than  it  can  ever  be  to  the 
slave." 

"  Then  I  would  free  them  from  that  curse,  that  degrada- 
tion. If  the  negro  asks,  '  Am  I  not  a  man  and  a  brother? ' 
have  they  no  right  to  ask  it  also  ?  Shall  I,  pretending  to 
love  my  country,  venture  on  any  rash  step  which  may  shut 
out  the  whole  Southern  white  population  from  their  share 
in  my  country's  future  glory  ?  No  ;  have  but  patience  with 
us,  you  comfortable  liberals  of  the  old  world,  who  find  free- 
dom ready-made  to  your  hands,  and  we  will  pay  you  all. 
Remember,  we  are  but  children  yet ;  our  sins  are  the  sins 
of  youth,  —  greediness,  intemperance,  petulance,  self-con- 
ceit. When  we  are  purged  from  our  youthful  sins,  England 
will  not  be  ashamed  of  her  child." 

"  Ashamed  of  you  ?  I  often  wish  I  could  make  Americans 
understand  the  feeling  of  England  to  you  —  the  honest 
pride,  as  of  a  mother  who  has  brought  into  the  world  the 
biggest  baby  that  ever  this  earth  beheld,  and  is  rather  proud 
of  its  stamping  about  and  beating  her  in  its  pretty  pets. 
Only  the  old  lady  does  get  a  little  cross,  when  she  hears 
you  talk  of  the  wrongs  which  you  have  endured  from  her, 
and  teaching  your  chiUlren  to  hate  us  as  their  ancient 
oppressors,  on  the  ground  (jf  a  foolish  war,  of  which  every 
Englishman  is  utterly  ashamed,  and  in  the  result  of  which 
he  glories  really  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Don't  talk  of  '  you,'  Claude  !  You  know  well  what  I 
think  on  that  point.  Never  did  one  nation  make  the 
amende  honorable  to  another  more  fully  and  nobly  than  you 
have  to  us  ;  and  tliose  who  try  to  keep  up  the  quarrel  are 
—  1  won't  say  what.  But  the  truth  is,  Claude,  we  have 
had  no  real  sorrows ;  and,  therefoi-c,  we  can  afford  to  play 
with  imaginary  ones.     God  grant  that  we  may  not  hava 


INTRODUCTORY.  IX 

our  real  ones  —  that  we  may  not  have  to  drink  of  the  cup 
of  which  our  great  mother  drank  two  years  ago  I  " 

"  It  was  a  wholesome  bitter  for  us  ;  and  it  may  be  so  for 
you  likewise ;  but  we  will  have  no  sad  forebodings  on  the 
eve  of  the  blessed  Christmas  tide.  He  lives,  He  loves,  He 
reigns  ;  and  all  is  well,  for  we  are  His,  and  He  is  ours." 

"  Ah,"  said  Stangrave,  "  when  Emerson  sneered  at  you 
English  for  believing  your  Old  Testament,  he  little  thought 
that  that  was  the  lesson  which  it  had  taught  you  ;  and  that 
that  same  lesson  was  the  root  of  all  your  greatness.  That 
that  belief  in  God's  being,  in  some  mysterious  way,  the 
living  King  of  England  and  of  Christendom,  has  been  the 
very  idea  which  has  kept  you  in  peace  and  safety,  now  for 
many  a  hundred  years,  moving  slowly  on  from  good  to  bet- 
ter, not  without  many  backsHdings  and  many  shortcomings, 
but  still  finding  out,  quickly  enough,  when  you  were  on  the 
wrong  road  ;  and  not  ashamed  to  retrace  your  steps,  and  to 
reform,  as  brave  strong  men  should  dare  to  do  ;  a  people 
who  have  been  for  many  an  age  in  the  vanguard  of  all  the 
nations,  and  the  champions  of  sure  and  solid  progress 
throughout  the  world  ;  because  what  is  new  among  you  is 
not  patched  artificially  on  to  the  old,  but  grows  organically 
out  of  it,  with  a  growth  like  that  of  your  own  English  oak, 
whose  every  new-year's  leaf  crop  is  fed  by  roots  which  bur- 
row deep  in  many  a  buried  generation,  and  the  rich  soil  of 
full  a  thousand  years." 

"Stay!"  said  the  little  artist.  "  We  are  quite  conceited 
enough  already,  without  your  eloquent  adulation,  sir  !  But 
there  is  a  truth  in  your  words.  There  is  a  better  spirit 
roused  among  us  ;  and  that  not  merely  of  two  years  ago. 
I  knew  this  part  of  the  country  well  in  I846-Y-8,  and  since 
then,  I  can  bear  witness,  a  spirit  of  self-reform  has  been 
awakened  round  here,  in  many  a  heart  which  I  thought 
once  utterly  frivolous.  1  find,  in  every  circle  of  every  class, 
men  and  women  asking  to  be  taught  their  duty,  that  they 
may  go  and  do  it ;  I  find  everywhere  schools,  libraries,  and 
mechanics'  institutes  springing  up  ;  and  rich  and  poor  meet- 
ing together  more  and  more  in  the  faith  that  God  has  made 
them  all.  As  for  the  outward  and  material  improvements  — 
you  know,  as  well  as  I,  that  since  free  trade  and  emigration 
the  laborers  confess  themselves  better  off  than  they  have 
been  for  fifty  years  ;  and  though  you  will  not  see  in  the 
chalk  counties  that  rapid  and  enormous  agricultural  im- 
provement which  you  will  in  Lincolnshire,  Yorkshire,  or  the 
Lothians,  yet  you  shall  see  enough  to-day  to  settle  for  you 


Z  INTRODUCTORY. 

the  question  whether  we  old  country  folk  are  in  a  state  of 
decadence  and  decay.     Par  exeviple —  " 

And  Claude  pointed  to  the  clean  large  fields,  with  theii 
neat,  close-clipt  hedge-rows,  among  which  here  and  thert 
stood  cottages,  more  than  three  fourths  of  them  new. 

"  Those  well-drained  fallow  fields,  ten  years  ago,  were 
poor  clay  pastures,  fetlock  deep  in  mire  six  inonths  in  the 
year,  and  accursed  in  the  eyes  of  my  poor  dear  old  friend, 
Squire  Lavington  ;  because  they  were  so  full  of  old  moles'- 
nests,  that  they  threw  all  horses  down.  I  am  no  farmer; 
but  they  seem  surely  to  be  somewhat  altered  since  then." 

As  he  spoke,  they  turned  off  the  main  line  of  the  rolling 
clays  toward  the  foot  of  the  chalk  hills,  and  began  to  brush 
through  short  cuttings  of  blue  gault  and  "  green  sand,"  so 
called  by  geologists,  because  its  usual  colors  are  bright 
brown,  snow  white,  and  crimson. 

Soon  they  get  glimpses  of  broad  silver  Whit,  as  she 
slides,  with  divided  streams,  through  bright  water-meadows, 
and  stately  groves  of  poplar,  and  abele,  and  pine  ;  while, 
far  aloft  upon  the  left,  the  downs  rise  steep,  crowned 
with  black  fir  spinnies,  and  dotted  with  dark  box  and 
juniper. 

Soon  they  pass  old  Whitford  Priory,  with  its  numberless 
gables,  nestling  amid  mighty  elms,  and  the  Nunpool  flash 
ing  and  roaring  as  of  old,  and  the  broad  shallow  below 
sparkling  and    laughing  in  the  low  but   bright  December 
Bun. 

"  So  slides  on  the  noble  river,  forever  changing,  and  yet 
forever  the  same  —  always  fulfilling  its  errand,  which  yet 
is  never  fulfilled,"  said  Stangrave,  —  he  was  given  to  half- 
mystic  utterances,  and  hankerings  after  Pagan  mythology, 
learnt  in  the  daj^s  when  he  worshipped  EmersoiVy  and  tried 
(but  unsuccessfully)  to  worship  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli. — 
"  Those  old  Greeks  had  a  deep  insight  into  nature,  when 
they  gave  to  each  river  not  merely  a  name,  but  a  semi- 
human  personality,  a  river-god  of  its  own.  It  may  be  but  a 
collection  of  ever-changing  atoms  of  water  ;  —  what  is  your 
body  but  a  similar  collection  of  atoms,  decaying  and  renew- 
ing every  moment  ?  Yet  you  are  a  person  ;  and  is  not  the 
river,  too,  a  person  —  a  live  thing?  It  has  an  individual 
countenance  which  you  love,  which  you  would  recognize 
again,  meet  it  where  you  will ;  it  marks  the  whole  land- 
BCape ;  it  determines,  probably,  the  geography  and  the 
society  of  a  whole  district.  It  draws  you,  too,  to  itself  by 
an  indefinable  mesmeric  attraction.     If  you  stop  in  a  strange 


INTRODUCTORY.  XI 

place,  the  first  instinct  of  your  idle  half-hour  is  to  lounge  bj 
the  river.  It  is  a  person  to  you  ;  you  call  it  —  Scotchmen 
do,  at  least  —  she,  and  not  it.  How  do  you  know  that  you 
are  not  philosophically  correct,  and  that  the  river  has  a 
spirit  as  well  as  you  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Claude,  who  talks  mysticism  himself  by 
the  hour,  but  snubs  it  in  every  one  else.  "  It  has  trout,  at 
least ;  and  they  stand,  I  suppose,  for  its  soul,  as  the  raisina 
did  for  those  of  Jean  Paul's  gingerbread  bride  and  bride- 
groom and  peradventure  baby." 

"  0,  you  materialist  English  I  sporting-mad  all  of  you, 
from  the  duke  who  shooteth  stags  to  the  clod  who  poacheth 
rabbits  I  " 

"  And  who,  therefore,  can  fight  Russians  at  Inkermann, 
duke  and  clod  alike,  and  side  by  side  ;  never  better  (says 
the  chronicler  of  old)  than  in  their  first  battle.  I  can 
neither  fight  nor  fish,  and,  on  the  whole,  agree  with  you  ; 
but  1  think  it  proper  to  be  as  English  as  I  can  in  the  pres- 
ence of  an  American." 

A  whistle  —  a  ci'eak — ajar;  and  they  stop  at  the  little 
Whitford  station,  where  a  cicerone  for  the  vale,  far  better 
than  Claude  was,  made  his  appearance,  in  the  person  of 
Mark  Armsworth,  banker,  railway  director,  and  de  facto 
king  of  Whitbury  town,  long  since  elected  by  universal  suf- 
frage (his  own  vote  included)  as  permanent  locum,  tenens  of 
her  gracious  majesty. 

He  hails  Claude  cheerfully  from  the  platform,  as  he  wad- 
dles about,  with  a  face  as  of  the  rising  sun,  radiant  with  good 
fun,  good  humor,  good  deeds,  good  news,  and  good  living. 
His  coat  was  scarlet  once,  but  purple  now.  His  leathers 
and  boots  were  doubtless  clean  this  morning,  but  are  now 
afflicted  with  elephantiasis,  being  three  inches  deep  in  solid 
mud,  which  his  old  groom  is  scraping  off  as  fast  as  he  can. 
His  cap  is  duntled  in  ;  his  back  bears  fresh  stains  of  peat ; 
a  gentle  rain  distils  from  the  few  angles  of  his  person,  and 
oedews  the  platform  ;  for  Mark  Armsworth  has  "  been  in 
Whit  "  to-day. 

All  porters  and  guards  touch  their  hats  to  him ;  the  sta- 
tion-master rushes  up  and  down  frantically,  shouting, 
"  Where  are  those  horse-boxes  ?  Now  then,  look  alive  !  " 
for  Mark  is  chairman  of  the  line,  and  everybody's  friend, 
beside  ;  and  as  he  stands  there  being  scraped,  he  finds  time 
to  inquire  after  every  one  of  the  officials  by  turn,  and  aftei 
their  wives,  children  and  sweethearts  beside. 


XII  INTRODUCTORY. 

"  What  a  fine  specimen  of  your  English  squire  1  "  saya 
Stan  grave. 

"  lie  is  no  squire ;  he  is  the  Whitbury  banker,  of  whom 
I  told  you." 

"  Armsworth  ?  "  said  Stangrave,  looking  at  the  old  man 
with  interest. 

"  Mark  Armsworth  himself.  He  is  acting  as  squire, 
though,  now ;  for  he  has  hunted  the  Whitford  Priors  ever 
since  poor  old  Lavington's  death." 

"  Now,  then  —  those  horse-boxes  1  "  .  .  , 

"  Very  sorry,  sir  ;  I  telegraphed  up,  but  we  could  get  but 
one  down." 

"  Put  the  horses  into  that,  then  ;  and  there  's  an  empty 
carriage  !  Jack,  put  the  hounds  into  it,  and  they  shall  all 
go  second  class,  as  sure  as  I  'm  chairman  !  " 

The  grinning  porters  hand  the  strange  passengers  in, 
while  Mark  counts  the  couples  with  his  whip-point,  —  ^ 

"  Ravager  —  Roysterer  ;  Melody  —  Gay-lass  ;  —  all  right. 
Why,  where  's  that  old  thief  of  a  Goodman  ?  " 

"  Went  over  a  gate  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  couples  ;  and 
would  n't  come  in  at  any  price,  sir,"  says  the  huntsman. 
"  Gone  home  by  himself,  I  expect." 

"  Goodman  !  Goodman  !  boy  I  "  And  forthwith  out  of  the 
station-room  slips  the  noble  old  hound,  gray-nosed,  gray- 
eyebrowed,  who  has  hidden,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  till  he 
sees  all  the  rest  safe  locked  in. 

Up  he  goes  to  Mark,  and  begins  wriggling  against  his 
knees,  and  looking  up  as  only  dogs  can.  "  0,  want  to  go 
first  class  with  me,  eh  ?  Jump  in,  then  !  "  And  in  jumps 
the  hound,  and  Mark  struggles  after  him. 

"  Ilillo,  sir  !  Come  out !  Here  are  your  betters  here  before 
you,"  as  he  sees  Stangrave  and  a  fat  old  lady  in  the  oppo- 
site corner. 

"  0,  no  ;  let  the  dog  stay  I  "  says  Stangrave 

"  I  shall  wet  you,  sir,  I  'm  afraid." 

"0,  no." 

And  Mark  settles  himself,  puffing,  with  the  hound's  head 
on  his  knees,  and  begins  talking  fast  and  loud. 

"Well,  Mr.  Mellot,  you're  a  stranger  here.  Haven't 
seen  you  since  poor  Miss  Honor  died.  Ah,  sweet  angel 
she  was !  Thought  my  Mary  would  never  get  over  it. 
She 's  just  sucli  another,  though  I  say  it,  barring  the 
beauty.  Goodman,  boy  !  You  recollect  old  Goodman,  sou 
Df  Galloper,  that  the  old  squire  gave  our  old  squire  ?  " 

Claude,    of  course,  knows  —  as  all  do  who  know  tliose 


INTRODUCTOEY.  XIH 

parts  —  who  the  old  squire  is  ;  long  may  he  live,  patriarch 
of  the  chase  I     The  genealogy  he  does  not. 

"  Ah,  well  I  Miss  Honor  took  to  the  pup,  and  used  to 
walk  him  out ;  and  a  prince  of  a  hound  he  is  ;  so  now  he  'a 
old  we  let  him  have  his  bwn  way,  for  her  sake  ;  and  no- 
body '11  ever  bully  you,  will  they,  Goodman,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Proud  to  know  any  friend  of  yours,  sir." 

"Mr.  Stangrave,  Mr.  Arms  worth.  Mr.  Stangrave  is  an 
American  gentleman,  who  is  anxious  to  see  Whitbury  and 
the  neighborhood." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  happy  to  show  it  him,  then  ;  can't  have 
a  better  guide,  though  I  say  it  —  know  everything  by  this 
time,  and  everybody,  man,  woman,  and  child,  as  I  hope  Mr. 
Stangrave  '11  find  when  he  gets  to  know  old  Mark." 

"  You  must  not  speak  of  getting  to  know  you,  my  dear 
sir  ;  I  know  you  intimately  already,  I  assure  you ;  and, 
more,  am  under  very  deep  obligations  to  you,  which  I 
regret  to  say  I  can  only  repay  by  thanks." 

"  Obligation  to  me,  my  dear  sir  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am  ;  I  will  tell  you  all  when  we  are  alone." 
And  Stangrave  glanced  at  the  fat  old  woman,  who  seemed 
to  be  listening  intently. 

"  0,  never  mind  her,"  says  Armsworth  ;  "  deaf  as  a  post ; 
very  good  woman,  but  so  deaf;  ought  to  speak  to  her, 
though  "  —  and,  reaching  across,  to  the  infinite  amusement 
of  his  companions,  he  roared  in  the  fat  woman's  face,  with 
a  voice  as  of  a  speaking-trumpet,  "  Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs, 
Grove  !  Got  those  dividends  ready  for  you  next  time  you 
come  into  town." 

"  Yah  !  "  screamed  the  hapless  woman,  who  (as  the  rest 
saw)  heard  perfectly  well.  "  What  do  you  mean,  frighten- 
ing a  lady  in  that  way  ?     Deaf,  indeed  !  " 

"  Why,"  roared  Mark  again,  "  an't  you  Mrs.  Grove,  of 
Drytown  Dirtywater  ?  " 

"  No,  nor  no  acquaintance !  What  business  is  it  of 
your'n,  sir,  to  go  hollering  in  ladies'  faces  at  your  age  ?  " 

"  Well  ;  but  I  '11  swear,  if  you  an't  her,  you  're  somebody 
else.     I  know  you  as  well  as  the  town  clock." 

"  Me  ?  if  you  must  know,  sir,  I  'm  Mrs.  Pettigrew's 
mother,  the  linendraper's  establishment,  sir ;  a-going  down 
for  Christmas,  sir  !  " 

"Humph!"  says  Mark;  "you  see — was  sure  I  knew 
tier  —  know   everybody  here.     As   I  said,  if  she  wasn't 

B 


XIT  INTRODUCTORY. 

Mrs.  Grove,  she  was  somebody  else.     Ever  in  these  parts 
befoKi  ? " 

"  Never ;  but  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  them ;  and 
very  much  charmed  with  them  I  am.  I  have  seldom  seen  a 
more  distinctive  specimen  of  English  scenery." 

"  And  how  you  are  improving  round  here  I  "said  Claude, 
who  knew  Mark's  weak  points,  and  wanted  to  draw  him 
out.  "Your  homesteads  seem  all  new  ;  three  fields  have 
been  throwi  into  one,  I  fancy,  over  half  the  larms." 

Mark  broke  out  at  once  on  his  favorite  topic.  "  I  believe 
you  !  1  'm  making  the  mare  go  here  in  Whitford  ;  without 
the  money,  too,  sometimes.  I  'm  steward  now,  bailifl' — • 
ha!  ha  I  these  four  years  past — to  Mrs.  Lavington's  Irish 
husband ;  wanted  him  to  have  a  regular  agent,  a  canny 
Scot,  or  Yorkshireman.  Faitli !  the  poor  man  could  n't 
afibrd  it,  and  so  fell  back  on  old  Mark.  Paddy  loves  a  job, 
you  know.  So  I  've  the  votes  and  the  fishing,  and  send 
him  his  rents,  and  manage  all  the  rest  pretty  much  my  own 
way." 

When  the  name  of  Lavington  was  mentioned,  Mark 
observed  Stangrave  start ;  and  an  expression  passed  over 
his  face  difficult  to  be  defined  —  it  seemed  to  Mark  mingled 
pride  and  shame.  He  turned  to  Claude,  and  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  but  loud  enough  for  Mark  to  hear,  — 

"  Lavington  ?  Is  this  their  country  also  ?  As  I  am 
going  to  visit  the  graves  of  my  ancestors,  I,  I  suppose, 
ought  to  visit  those  of  hers." 

Mark  caught  the  words  which  he  was  not  intended  to. 

"  Eh  ?  Sir,  do  you  belong  to  these  parts  ?  " 

"My  family,  I  believe,  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of 
AVhitbury,  at  a  place  called  Stangrave-end." 

"  To  be  sure  !  Old  farm-house  now  ;  fine  old  oak  carving 
in  it,  though  ;  fine  old  family  it  must  have  been  ;  cliurch  full 
of  their  monuments.  Hum,  —  ha !  AVell  1  that 's  pleasant, 
now  !  I  've  often  heard  there  were  good  old  families  away 
there  in  New  England  ;  never  thought  there  were  Whitbury 
people  among  them,  Ilum  —  well  I  the  world's  not  so  big 
as  people  think,  after  all.  And  you  spoke  of  the  Laving- 
tons?  They  are  great  folks  here  —  or  were"  —  lie  was 
going  to  rattle  on  ;  but  he  saw  a  pained  expression  on  both 
the  travellers'  faces,  and  Stangrave  stopped  him,  somewhat 

"  I  know  nolhing  of  them,  I  assure  you,  or  they  of  me. 
Your  country  here  is  certainly  charming,  and  shows  little 


INTRODUCTORY.  XV 

nf  tho^e   signs   of  decay  which   some   people  in  America 
impute  to  it." 

"  Decay  ! "  Mark  went  oflf  at  score.  "  Decay  be  hanged  .' 
There  's  life  in  the  old  dog,  yet,  sir !  and  dead  pigs  are 
looking  up,  since  free  trade  and  emigration.  Cheap  bread 
and  high  wages,  now  ;  and,  instead  of  lands  going  out  of 
cultivation,  as  they  threatened  —  bosh!  there's  a  greater 
breadth  down  in  wheat  in  the  vale  now  than  there  ever  was  , 
and  look  at  the  roots.  Farmers  must  farm  now,  or  sink  ; 
and,  by  George  !  they  are  farming,  like  sensible  fellows ; 
and  a  fig  for  that  old  turnip  ghost  of  Protection  !  There 
was  a  fellow  came  down  from  the  Carlton,  —  you  know 
what  that  is  ? "  Stangrave  bowed,  and  smiled  assent. 
"  From  the  Carlton,  sir,  two  years  since,  and  tried  it  on,  till 
he  fell  in  with  old  Mark.  I  told  him  a  thing  or  two  ;  among 
the  rest,  told  him  to  his  face  that  he  was  a  liar ;  for  he 
wanted  to  make  farmers  believe  they  were  ruined,  when  he 
knew  they  were  not ;  and  that  he  'd  get  'em  back  Protec- 
tion, when  he  knew  that  he  could  n't,  and,  what 's  more, 
did  n't  mean  to.  So  he  cut  up  rough,  and  wanted  to  call 
me  out." 

"  Did  you  go  ?  "  asked  Stangrave,  who  was  fast  becom- 
ing amused  with  his  man. 

"  I  told  him  that  that  was  n't  my  line,  unless  he  'd  try 
Eley's  greens  at  forty  yards,  and  then  I  was  his  man  ;  but 
if  he  laid  a  finger  on  me,  I  'd  give  him  as  sound  a  horsewhip- 
ping, old  as  I  am,  as  ever  man  had  in  his  life.  And  so  I 
would."  And  Mark  looked  complacently  at  his  own  broad 
shoulders.  "And,  since  then,  my  lord  and  I  have  had  it 
all  our  own  way,  and  Minchampstead  &  Co.  is  the  only  firm 
in  the  vale." 

"  What  is  become  of  a  Lord  Vieuxbois,  who  used  to  live 
somewhere  hereabouts  ?     I  used  to  meet  him  at  Rome." 

"  Rome  ?  "  said  Mark,  solemnly.  "  Yes  ;  he  was  too 
fond  of  Rome,  a  while  back  ;  can't  see  what  people  want, 
running  into  foreign  parts  to  look  at  those  poor  idolaters, 
and  their  Punch  and  Judy  plays.  Pray  for  'em,  and  keep 
clear  of  them,  is  the  best  rule;  —  but  he  has  married  my 
lord's  youngest  daughter,  and  three  pretty  children  he  has 
^  ducks  of  children.  Always  comes  to  see  me  in  my  shop, 
when  he  drives  into  town.  0,  he 's  doing  pretty  well ! 
One  of  these  new  between-the-two-stools,  Peelites  they  call 
them — hope  they'll  be  as  good  as  the  name.  However 
he  's  a  free-trader,  because  he  can't  help  it.  So  we  have 
his  votes  ;  and,  as  to  his  conservatism,  let  him  conserve 


XVI  INTRODUCTORY. 

nipB  and  haws,  if  he  chooses,  like  a  'pothecary.  After  all, 
why  pull  down  anything  before  it 's  tumbling  on  youi 
head  ?  By  the  by,  sir,  as  you  're  a  man  of  money,  there  's 
that  Stangrave-end  farm  in  the  maiket  now.  Pretty  little 
investment,  —  I  'd  see  that  you  got  it  cheap  ;  and  my  lord 
would  n't  bi'''  against  you,  of  course,  as  you  're  a  liberal  — 
all  Americai..  .  re,  I  suppose.  And  so  you  'd  oblige  us,  aa 
well  as  yourself,  for  it  would  give  us  another  vote  for  the 
county." 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  tempt  me  ;  but  I  do  not  think  that 
this  is  just  the  moment  for  an  American  to  desert  his  own 
country,  and  settle  in  England.  I  should  not  be  here  now, 
had  I  not  this  autumn  done  all  I  could  for  America  in  Amer- 
ica, and  so  crossed  the  sea  to  serve  her,  if  possible,  in  Eng- 
land." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not;  especially  if  you  are  a  Fremonter." 

"I  am,  I  assure  you." 

"  Thought  as  much,  by  your  looks.  Don't  see  what  else 
an  honest  man  can  be  just  now." 

Stangrave  laughed.  "  I  hope  every  one  thinks  so  in  Eng- 
land." 

"Trust  us  for  that,  sir!  We  know  a  man  when  we  see 
him  here  ;  I  hope  they  '11  do  the  same  across  the  water." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  minute  or  two  ;  and  then  Mark 
began  again. 

"Look  I  — there's  a  farm;  that's  my  lord's.  I  should 
like  to  show  you  the  short-horns  there,  sir  !  —  all  my  Lord 
Ducie's  and  Sir  Edward  Knightley's  stock  :  bought  a  bull- 
calf  of  him  the  other  day  myself  for  a  cool  hundred,  old  fool 
that  I  am.  Never  mind,  spreads  the  breed.  And  here  are 
mills  —  four  pair  of  new  stones.  Old  Whit  don't  know  her- 
self again.  But  I  dare  say  they  look  small  enough  to  you, 
sir,  after  your  American  water-power." 

"  What  of  that?  It  is  just  as  honorable  in  you  to  make 
the  most  of  a  small  river,  as  in  us  to  make  the  most  of  a 

large  one." 

"  You  speak  like  a  book,  sir.  By  the  by,  if  you  flunk  of 
taking  home  a  calf  or  two,  to  improve  your  New  England 
t)i.eed  —  there  are  a  good  many  gone  across  the  sea  in  the 
last  few  years  —  I  think  we  could  find  you  three  or  four 
beauties,  and  not  so  very  dear,  considering  the  blood." 

"  Thanks  ;  but  I  really  am  no  farmer." 

''■\\rell_no  offence,  I  hope  ;  but  I  am  like  your  Yankees 
in  oi^'-ahing,  you  see;  — always  have  an  eye  to  a  bit  of 
busirtcss.     If  I  did  n't  1  should  n't  be  here  now." 


INTRODUCTORY.  XVK 

"  How  very  tasteful !  —  our  own  American  shrubs  !  What 
(I  pity  that  they  are  not  in  flower !  What  is  this,"  asked 
Stangrave,  —  "  one  of  your  noblemen's  parks  ?  " 

And  they  began  to  run  through  the  cutting  in  Minchamp- 
Btead  Park,  where  the  owner  has  concealed  the  banks  of  the 
rail,  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  in  a  thicket  of  azaleas,  rhododen- 
drons, and  clambering  roses.  '^ 

"Ah! — is  n't  it  pretty?  His  lordship  let  us  have  the 
land  for  a  song ;  only  bargained  that  we  should  keep  low, 
not  to  spoil  his  view  ;  and  so  we  did  ;  and  he  's  planted  our 
cutting  for  us.  I  call  that  a  present  to  the  county,  and  a 
very  pretty  one  too  1  Ah,  give  me  these  new  brooms  that 
sweep  clean  !  " 

"  Your  old  brooms,  like  Lord  Vieuxbois,  were  new  brooms 
once,  and  swept  well  enough  five  hundred  years  ago,"  said 
Stangrave,  who  had  that  filial  reverence  for  English  antiquity 
which  sits  so  gracefully  upon  many  highly-educated  and  far- 
sighted  Americans. 

"  Worn  to  the  stumps  now,  too  many  of  them,  sir;  and 
want  new  hething,  as  our  broom-squires  would  say  ;  and  1 
doubt  whether  most  of  them  are  worth  the  cost  of  a  fresh 
bind.  Not  that  I  can  say  that  of  the  young  lord.  He  's 
foremost  in  all  that 's  good,  if  he  had  but  money  ;  and  when 
he  has  n't,  he  gives  brains.  Gave  a  lecture,  in  our  institute 
at  Whitford,  last  winter,  on  the  four  great  Poets,  Shot 
over  my  head  a  little,  and  other  people's  too  ;  but  my  Mary 
—  my  daughter,  sir,  thought  it  beautiful ;  a;,d  there  's  noth- 
ing that  she  don't  know." 

"  It  is  very  hopeful  to  see  your  aristocracy  joining  in  the 
general  movement,  and  bringing  their  taste  and  knowledge 
to  bear  on  the  lower  classes." 

"  Yes,  sir  !  We  're  going  all  right  now,  in  the  old  coun- 
try. Only  have  to  steer  straight,  and  not  put  on  too  much 
steam.  But  give  me  the  new-comers,  after  all.  They  may 
be  close  men  of  business  ;  • — how  else  could  one  live  ?  But 
when  it  comes  to  giving,  I  '11  back  them  against  the  old 
ones  for  generosity,  or  taste  either.  They  've  their  proper 
pride,  when  they  get  hold  of  the  land  ;  and  they  show  it, 
and  quite  right  they.  You  must  see  my  little  place,  too. 
It 's  not  in  such  bad  order,  though  I  say  it,  and  am  but  a 
country  banker  ;  but  I  '11  back  my  flowers  against  half  the 
squires  round  —  my  Mary's,  that  is  —  and  my  fruit,  too. 
See,  there  !  There  's  my  lord's  new  schools,  and  his  model 
cottages,  with  more  comforts  in  them,  saving  the  size,  ;han 
my  father's  house  had  ;  and  there  's  his  barrack,  as  he  calls 

B* 


XVni  INTRODUCTORY. 

it,  for  the  unmarried  men  —  reading-room,  and  dining-room, 
in  common  ;  and  a  library  of  books,  and  a  sleeping-room  fol 
each." 

"  It  seems  strange  to  complain  of  prosperity,"  said  Stan- 
grave  ;  "but  I  sometimes  regret  that  in  America  there  is  so 
little  room  for  the  veiy  highest  virtues ;  all  are  so  well  ofi", 
that  one  never  needs  to  give  ;  and  what  a  man  does  here 
for  others  they  do  for  themselves." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  them.  There  are  other  ways  of 
being  generous,  besides  putting  your  hand  in  your  pocket, 
sir.  By  Jove  !  there  '11  be  room  enough  (if  you  '11  excuse 
me)  for  an  American  to  do  fine  things,  as  long  as  those  poor 
negro  slaves " 

*'  I  know  it ;  I  know  it,"  said  Stangrave,  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  had  already  made  up  his  mind  on  a  painful  subject, 
and  wished  to  hear  no  more  of  it.  "  You  will  excuse  me  ; 
but  I  am  come  here  to  learn  what  I  can  of  England.  Of  my 
own  country  I  know  enough,  1  trust,  to  do  my  duty  in  it 
when  I  return." 

Mark  was  silent,  seeing  that  he  had  touched  a  tender 
place  ;  and  pointed  out  one  object  of  interest  after  another, 
as  they  ran  through  the  flat  park,  past  the  great  house  with 
its  Doric  fa9ade,  which  the  eighteenth  century  had  raised 
above  the  quiet  cell  of  the  Minchampstead  recluses. 

"  It  is  very  ugly,"  said  Stangrave  ;  and  truly. 

"Comfortable  enough,  though;  and,  as  somebody  said, 
people  live  inside  their  houses,  and  not  outside  'em.  You 
should  see  the  pictures  there,  though,  while  you  're  in  the 
country.  I  can  show  you  one  or  two,  too,  I  hope.  Never 
grudge  money  for  good  pictures.  The  pleasantest  furniture 
in  the  world,  as  long  as  you  keep  them  ;  and,  if  you  're  tired 
of  them,  always  fetch  double  their  price." 

After  Minchampstead,  the  rail  loaves  the  sands  and  clays, 
and  turns  up  between  the  chalk  hills,  along  the  barge  river, 
which  it  has  rendered  useless,  save  as  a  supernumerary 
trout-stream  ;  and  then  along  Whit  now  flowing  clearer  and 
clearer,  as  we  approach  its  springs  amid  the  lofty  downs. 
On  through  more  water-meadows,  and  rows  of  pollard  willow, 
and  peat  pits  crested  with  tall  golden  reeds,  and  still  dykes, 
■ — each  in  a  sunnner  floating  flower-bed;  while  Stangrave 
looks  out  of  the  window,  his  face  lighting  up  with  curi 
osity. 

"How  perfectly  English!  At  least,  how  perfectly  ui> 
American  I     It  is  just  Tennyson's  beautiful  dream  — 


INTRODUCTOEY.  XI3 

•  On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye. 
Which  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky. 
And  through  the  field  the  stream  runs  by. 
To  many-towered  Camelot.'  " 

"Why,  what  is  this  ?  "  as  they  stop  again  at  a  statiou 
where  the  board  bears,  in  large  letters,  "  Shalott." 
"  Shalott  ?     Where  are  the 

'  Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 

which  overlook  a  space  of  flowers  ?  " 

There,  upon  the  little  island,  are  the  castle-ruins,  now 
converted  into  a  useful  bone-mill.  "And  the  lady? — is 
that  she  ? " 

It  was  only  the  miller's  daughter,  fresh  from  a  boarding- 
school,  gardening  in  a  broad  straw  hat. 

"At  least,"  said  Claude,  "she  is  tending  far  prettier 
flowers  than  ever  the  lady  saw ;  while  the  lady  herself, 
instead  of  weaving  and  dreaming,  is  reading  Miss  Young's 
novels,  and  becoming  all  the  wiser  thereby,  and  teaching 
poor  children  in  Hemmelford  National  School." 

"  And  where  is  her  fairy  knight,"  asked  Stangrave, 
"  whom  one  half  hopes  to  see  riding  down  from  that  grand 
old  house  which  sulks  there  above  among  the  beech-woods, 
as  if  frowning  on  all  the  change  and  civilization  below?  " 

"  You  do  old  Sidricstone  injustice.  Vieuxbois  descends 
from  thence,  now-a-days,  to  lecture  at  mechanics'  institutes, 
instead  of  the  fairy  knight,  toiling  along  in  this  blazing  June 
weather,  sweating  in  burning  metal,  like  poor  Perillus  in  his 
own  bull." 

"  Then  the  fairy  knight  is  extinct  in  England  ?  -'  asked 
Stangrave,  smiling. 

"  No  man  less  ;  only  he  (not  Vieuxbois,  but  his  younger 
brother)  has  found  a  wide-awake  cooler  than  an  iron  kettle, 
and  travels  by  rail  when  he  is  at  home  ;  and  when  he  was 
in  the  Crimea,  rode  a  shaggy  pony,  and  smoked  cavendish 
all  through  the  battle  of  Inkerman." 

"  He  showed  himself  the  old  Sir  Lancelot  there,"  said 
Stangrave. 

"  He  did.  Wherefore  the  lady  married  him  when  the 
Guards  came  home  ;  and  he  will  breed  prize  pigs,  and  sit 
at  the  board  of  guardians,  and  take  in  The  Times,  clothed, 
ftnd  in  his  right  mind  ;  for  the  old  Berserk  spirit  is  gone  oul 


XX  INTRODUCTORY. 

of  him  ;  and  he  is  become  respectable,  in  a  respectable  age, 
and  is  nevertheless  just  as  brave  a  fellow  as  ever." 

"  And  so  all  things  are  changed,  except  the  river  ;  where 
Btill  — 

•  Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver. 
Little  breezes  dash  and  shiver 
On  the  stream  that  runneth  ever.'  " 

"And,"  said  Claude,  smiling,  "the  descendants  of  nie- 
diseval  trout  snap  at  the  descendants  of  medieeval  Hies,  spin- 
ning about  upon  just  the  same  sized  and  colored  wings 
on  which  their  forefathers  spun  a  thousand  years  ago  : 
having  become,  in  all  that  while,  neither  bigger  nor  wiser." 
"  But  is  it  not  a  grand  thought,"  asked  Stangrave,  — 
"  the  silence  and  permanence  of  nature  amid  the  perpetual 
flux  and  noise  of  human  life  ?  —  a  grand  thought  that  one 
generation  goeth,  and  another  cometh,  and  the  earth  abideth 
forever  ? " 

"  At  least,  it  is  so  much  the  worse  for  the  poor  old  earth, 
if  her  doom  is  to  stand  still,  while  man  improves  and  pro- 
gresses from  age  to  age  !  " 

"  May  I  ask  one  question,  sir?"  said  Stangrave,  who 
saw  that  the  conversation  was  puzzling  their  jolly  com- 
panion. "  Have  you  heard  any  news  yet  of  Mr.  Thur- 
nall?" 

Mark  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 
"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 
"  I  did,  in  past  years,  most  intimately." 
"  Then  you  knew  the  finest  fellow,  sir,  that  ever  walked 
mortal  earth." 

"  I  have  discovered  that,  sir,  as  well  as  you.  1  am  under 
obligations  to  that  man  which  my  heart's  blood  will  not 
repay.  I  shall  make  no  secret  of  telling  you  what  they  are 
at  a  fit  time." 

Mark  held  out  his  broad  red  hand,  and  grasped  Stangrave's 
till  the  joints  cracked  ;  his  face  grew  as  red  as  a  turkey- 
cock's  ;  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  His  father  must  hear  that !  Hang  it ;  his  father  must 
hear  that !     And  Grace  too  !  " 

"  Grace  !  "  said  Claude  ;   "  and  is  she  with  you  ?  " 
"With  the  old  man,  the  angel  I    tending  him  night  and 
day." 

"And  as  beautiful  as  ever?  " 

"Sir!"  said  Mark,  solemnly,  "when  anyone's  soul  is 
as  beautiful  as  hers  is,  one  never  thinks  about  her  face." 


INTRODUCTORY.  XXI 

"  Wlio  is  Grace  ?  "  asked  Stangrave. 

"  A  saint  and  a  heroine  ?  "  said  Claude,  "  You  shall 
know  all ;  for  you  ought  to  know.  But  you  have  no  newa 
of  Tom  ;  and  I  have  none  either.  I  am  losing  all  hope 
now." 

"  I'm  not,  sir  !  "  said  Mark,  fiercely.  "  Sir,  that  boy  's 
not  dead  ;  he  can't  be.  He  has  more  lives  than  a  cat,  and 
if  you  know  anything  of  him,  you  ought  to  know  that." 

"  I  have  good  reason  to  know  it,  none  more  ;  but  —  " 

"But,  sir!  But  what  ?  Harm  come  to  him,  sir?  The 
Lord  would  n't  harm  him,  for  his  father's  sake  ;  and  as  foi 
the  devil  !  —  I  tell  you,  sir,  if  he  tried  to  fly  away  with  him, 
he'd  have  to  drop  him  before  he'd  gone  a  mile  !  "  And 
Mark  began  blowing  his  nose  violently,  and  getting  so  red 
that  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  going  into  a  fit. 

"  'Tell  you  what  it  is,  gentlemen,"  said  he  at  last,  "  you 
come  and  stay  with  me,  and  see  his  father.  It  will  comfort 
the  old  man  —  and  —  and  comfort  me  too  ;  for  I  get  down- 
hearted about  him  at  times." 

"  Strange  attraction  there  was  about  that  man,"  says 
Stangrave,  sotlo  voce,  to  Claude. 

"  He  was  like  a  son  to  him  —  " 

"  Now,  gentlemen.     Mr.  Mellot,  you  don't  hunt  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Claude,  smiling. 

"  Mr.  Stangrave  does,  I  '11  warrant." 

"  I  have,  at  various  times,  both  in  England  and  in  Vir- 
ginia.  ' 

"  Ah  !  Do  they  keep  up  the  real  sport  there,  eh  ?  Well, 
that 's  the  best  thing  I 've  heard  of  them.  Sir!  my  horses 
are  yours  !  A  friend  of  that  boy's,  sir,  is  welcome  to 
lame  the  whole  lot,  and  I  won't  grumble.  Three  days  a 
week,  sir.  Breakfast  at  eight,  dinner  at  5'30  —  none  of 
your  late  London  hours  for  me,  sir  ;  and  after  it,  the  best 

bottle  of  port,  though  I  say  it,  short  of  my  friend  S 's, 

at  Reading." 

"  You  must  accept,"  whispered  Claude,  "  or  he  will  be 
angry." 

So  Stangrave  accepted  ;  and  all  the  more  readily  because 

he  wanted  to  hear  from  the  good  banker  many  things  about 

the  lost  Tom  Thurnall. 

***** 

"  Here  we  are,"  cries  Mark.  "  Now,  you  must  excuse 
me :  see  to  yourselves.  I  see  to  the  puppies.  Dinner  at 
6.30,  mind  !     Come  along,  Goodman,  boy." 

"  Is  this  Whitbury  ?  "  asked  Stangrave. 


X.XII  INTRODUCTORY. 

It  was  Whitbury,  indeed  Pleasant  old  town,  which 
slopes  down  the  hill-side  to  the  old  church, -^ just  "re- 
stored," though,  by  Lords  Miuchampstead  and  Vieuxbois, 
not  without  Mark  Armsworth's  help,  to  its  ancient  beauty 
of  gray  flint  and  white  clunch  checker-work,  and  quaint 
wooden  spire.  Pleasant  church-yard  round  it,  where  the 
dead  lie  looking  up  to  the  bright  southern  sun,  among  huge 
black  yews,  upon  their  knoll  of  white  chalk  above  the  an- 
cient stream.  Pleasant  white  wooden  bridge,  with  its  row 
of  urchins  dropping  flints  upon  the  noses  of  elephantine 
trout,  or  fishing  over  the  rail  with  crooked  pins,  while  hap- 
less gudgeon  come  dangling  upwards  between  stream  and 
sky,  with  a  look  of  sheepish  surprise  and  shame,  as  of  a 
school-boy  caught  stealing  apples,  in  their  foolish  visages. 
Pleasant  new  National  Schools  at  the  bridge  end,  whither 
the  urchins  scamper  at  the  sound  of  the  two  o'clock  bell. 
Though  it  be  an  ugly  pile  enough  of  bright  red  brick,  it  is 
doing  its  work,  as  Whitbury  folk  know  well  by  now.  Pleas- 
ant, too,  though  still  more  ugly,  those  long  red  arms  of  new 
houses  which  Whitbury  is  stretching  out  along  its  fine  turn- 
pikes, —  especially  up  to  the  railway  station  bej'^ond  the 
bridge,  and  to  the  smart  new  hotel,  which  hopes  (but  hopes 
in  vain)  to  outrival  the  ancient  "  Angler's  Rest."  Away 
thither,  and  not  to  the  Railway  Hotel,  they  trundle  in  a  fly, 
—  leaving  Mark  Armsworth  all  but  angry  because  they  will 
not  sleep,  as  well  as  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dine,  with  him 
daily,  —  and  settle  in  the  good  old  inn,  with  its  three  white 
gables  overhanging  the  pavement,  and  its  long  lattice- 
window  buried  deep  beneath  them,  like  —  so  Stangrave 
says  — •  to  a  shrewd  kindly  eye  under  a  bland  white  fore- 
head. 

No,  good  old  inn ;  not  such  shall  be  thy  fate,  as  long  as 
trout  are  trout,  and  men  have  wit  to  catch  them.  For  art 
thou  not  a  sacred  house  ?  Art  thou  not  consecrate  to  the 
Whitbury  brotherhood  of  anglers  ?  Is  not  the  wainscot  of 
that  long,  low  parlor  inscribed  with  many  a  famous  name  ? 
Are  not  its  walls  hung  with  many  a  famous  countenance  ? 
lias  not  its  oak-ribbed  ceiling  rung,  for  now  a  hundred 
years,  to  the  laughter  of  painters,  sculptors,  grave  divines 
(unbending  at  least  there),  great  lawyers,  statesmen,  wits 
even  of  Foote  and  Quin  themselves  ;  while  the  sleek  land- 
lord wiped  the  cobwebs  ofi"  another  magnum  of  that  grand 
old  port,  and  took  in  all  the  wisdom  with  a  quiet  twinkle 
of  his  sleepy  eye  ?  He  rests  now,  good  old  man,  among 
the   yews   beside   his   forefathers  ;    and   on   his   tomb   his 


INTRODUCTORY.  XXIIJ 

lengthy  epitaph,  writ  by  himself;  for  Barker  was  a  poet 
in  his  way.  • 

Some  people  hold  the  said  epitaph  to  be  irreverent,  be- 
cause iu  a  list  of  Barker's  many  blessings  occurs  the  profane 
word  "  trout ;  "  but  those  trout,  and  the  custom  which  they 
brought  him,  had  made  the  old  man's  life  comfortable,  and 
enabled  him  to  leave  a  competence  for  his  children  ;  and 
why  should  not  a  man  honestly  thank  Heaven  for  that 
which  he  knows  has  done  him  good,  even  though  it  be 
but  fish  ? 

He  is  gone  ;  but  the  Whit  is  not,  nor  the  Whitbury  club; 
nor  will,  while  old  Mark  Armsworth  is  king  in  Whitbury, 
and  sits  every  evening  in  the  May-fly  season  at  the  table- 
head,  retailing  good  stories  of  the  great  anglers  of  his 
youth,  —  names  which  you,  reader,  have  heard  many  a 
time,  —  and  who  could  do  many  things  besides  handling  a 
blow-line.  But  though  the  club  is  not  what  it  was  fifty 
years  ago,  —  before  Norway  and  Scotland  became  easy  of 
access, — yet  it  is  still  an  important  institution  of  the  town, 
to  the  members  whereof  all  good  subjects  touch  their  hats  ; 
for  does  not  the  club  bring  into  the  town  good  money,  and 
take  out  again  only  fish,  which  cost  nothing  in  the  breed- 
ing ?  Did  not  the  club  present  the  Town-hall  with  a  por- 
trait of  the  renowned  fishing  sculptor?  and  did  it  not  (only 
stipulating  that  the  school  should  be  built  beyond  the  bridge 
to  avoid  noise)  give  fifty  pounds  to  the  said  schools  but  five 
years  ago,  in  addition  to  Mark's  own  hundred  ? 

But  enough  of  this.  Only  may  the  Whitbury  club,  in 
recompense  for  my  thus  handing  them  down  to  immortal- 
ity, give  me  another  day  next  year,  as  they  gave  me  this  ; 
and  may  the  May-fly  be  strong  on,  and  a  south-west  gale 
blowing ! 

In  the  course  of  the  next  week,  in  many  a  conversation, 
the  three  men  compared  notes  as  to  the  events  of  two  years 
ago  ;  and  each  supplied  the  other  with  new  facts,  which 
shall  be  duly  set  forth  in  this  tale,  saving  and  excepting,  of 
course,  the  real  reason  why  everybody  did  everything.  For 
—  as  everybody  knows  who  has  watched  life  —  the  true 
springs  of  all  human  action  are  generally  those  which  fool? 
will  not  see,  which  wise  men  will  not  mention  ;  so  that,  in 
order  to  present  a  readable  tragedy  of  Hamlet,  you  must 
always  "omit  the  part  of  Hamlet,"  —  and  probably  the  ghosi 
and  the  queen  into  the  bargain. 


CHAPTER   1. 

POETRY  AND   PROSE. 

Now,  to  tell  my  story  —  if  not  as  it  ought  to  be  told,  at 
least  as  I  can  tell  it,  —  I  must  go  back  sixteen  years,  —  to 
the  days  when  Whitbury  boasted  of  forty  coaches  per  diem, 
instead  of  one  railway,  —  and  set  forth  how,  in  its  southern 
suburb,  there  stood  two  pleasant  houses  side  by  side,  with 
their  gardens  sloping  down  to  the  Whit,  and  parted  from 
each  other  only  by  the  high  brick  fruit-wall,  through  which 
there  used  to  be  a  door  of  communication  ;  for  the  two  occu- 
piers were  fast  friends.  In  one  of  these  two  houses,  sixteen 
years  ago,  lived  our  friend  Mark  Armsworth,  banker,  soli- 
citor, land-agent,  church-warden,  guardian  of  the  poor,  justice 
of  the  peace,  —  in  a  word,  viceroy  of  Whitbury  town,  and 
far  more  potent  therein  than  her  gracious  majesty  Queen 
Victoria.  In  the  other  lived  Edward  Thurnall,  esquire,  doc- 
tor of  medicine,  and  consulting  physician  of  all  the  country 
round.  These  two  men  were  as  brothers  ;  and  had  been  as 
brothei'S  for  now  twenty  years,  though  no  two  men  could 
be  more  difi'erent,  save  in  tlie  two  common  virtues  which 
bound  them  to  each  other  ;  and  that  was,  that  they  both 
were  honest  and  kind-hearted  men.  What  Mark's  charac- 
ter was,  and  is,  I  have  already  shown,  and  enough  of  it,  I 
hope,  to  make  my  readers  like  the  good  old  banker:  as  for 
Doctor  Thurnall,  a  purer  or  gentler  soul  never  entered  a 
Bick-room,  with  patient  wisdom  in  his  brain,  and  patient  ten- 
derness in  his  heart.  Beloved  and  trusted  by  rich  and  poor, 
he  had  made  to  himself  a  practice  large  enough  to  enable 
him  to  settle  two  sons  well  in  his  own  profession;  the  third 
and  youngest  was  still  in  Whitbury.  He  was  something  of 
a  geologist,  too,  and  a  botanist,  and  an  antiquarian  ;  and 
Mark  Armsworth,  who  knew,  and  knows  still,  nothing  of 
science,  looked  up  to  the  doctor  as  an  inspired  sage,  quoted 
him,  defended  his  opinion,  right  or  wrong,  and  thrust  him 
forward  at  public  meetings,  and  in  all  places  and  seasons, 
much  to  the  modest  doctor's  discomfiture. 

1  (1> 


£  POETRY   AND    PROSE. 

The  good  doctor  was  sitting-  in  his  study  on  the  morning 
on  wliich  my  tale  begins  ;  having  just  finished  liis  breakfast*^ 
and  settled  to  his  microscope  in  the  bay-window  opening  on 
the  lawn. 

A  beautiful  October  morning  it  was  ;  one  of  those  in 
vvliich  Dame  Nature,  liealthily  tired  with  the  revelry  of 
summer,  is  composing  herself,  with  a  quiet,  satisfied  smile, 
for  her  winter's  sleep.  Sheets  of  dappled  cloud  were  slid- 
ing slowly  from  the  west ;  long  bars  of  hazy  blue  hung  over 
the  southern  chalk  downs,  which  gleamed  pearly  gray 
beneath  the  low  south-eastern  sun.  in  the  vale  below,  soft 
white  fiakes  of  mist  still  hung  over  the  water-meadows,  and 
barred  the  dark  trunks  of  the  huge  elms  and  poplars,  whose 
fast-yellowing  leaves  came  showering  down  at  every  rustle 
of  the  western  breeze,  spotting  the  grass  below.  The  river 
swirled  along,  glassy  no  more,  but  dingy  gray  with  autumn 
rains  and  rotting  leaves.  All  beyond  the  garden  told  of 
autumn  ;  bright  and  peaceful,  even  in  decay  ;  but  up  the 
sunny  slope  of  the  garden  itself,  and  to  the  very  window- 
sill,  summer  still  lingered.  The  beds  of  red  verbena  and 
geranium  were  still  brilliant,  though  choked  with  fallen  leaves 
of  acacia  and  plane  ;  the  canary  plant,  still  untouched  by 
frost,  twined  its  delicate  green  leaves,  and  more  delicate 
yellow  blossoms,  through  the  crimson  lacework  of  the  Vir- 
ginia creeper  ;  and  the  great  yellow  noisette  swung  its  long 
canes  across  the  window,  filling  all  the  air  with  fruity  fra- 
grance. 

And  the  good  doctor,  lifting  his  eyes  from  his  microscope, 
looked  out  upon  it  all  with  a  quiet  satisfaction,  and,  though 
his  lips  did  not  move,  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  thanking  God 
for  it  all ;  and  thanking  Him,  too,  perhaps,  that  he  was  still 
permitted  to  gaze  upon  that  fair  world  outside.  For,  as  he 
gazed,  he  started,  as  if  with  sudden  pain,  and  passed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  with  something  like  a  sigh,  and  then 
looked-  at  the  microscope  no  more,  but  sat,  seemingly 
absorbed  in  thought,  while  upon  his  delicate,  toil-worn  feat- 
ures, and  high,  bland,  unwriukled  forehead,  and  the  lew 
soft  gray  locks  which  not  time,  —  for  he  was  scarcely  fifty- 
five, —  but  long  labor  of  brain,  had  spared  to  him,  there  lay  a 
liopelul  c;ilm,  as  of  a  man  who  had  nigh  done  his  work,  and 
felt  that  he  had  not  altogether  dojie  it  ill ;  —  an  autumnal 
calm,  resigned,  yet  full  of  cheerfulness,  which  harmonized 
fitly  with  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  decaying  landscape  before 
him. 

"  I  say,  daddy,  you  must  drop  that  microscope  and  put 


POETRY    AXD    PEOSE.  d 

on  your  shade.  You  are  ruining'  those  dear  old  eyes  of 
yours  again,  in  spite  of  what  Alexander  told  you." 

The  doctor  took  up  the  green  shade  which  lay  beside  him, 
and  replaced  it  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile. 

"  I  must  use  the  o^d  things  now  and  then,  till  you  can 
take  my  place  at  the  microscope,  Tom  ;  or  till  we  have,  as 
we  ought  to  have,  a  first-rate  analytical  chemist  settled  in 
every  county-town,  and  paid,  in  part  at  least,  out  of  the 
county  rates." 

The  "  Tom  "  who  had  spoken  was  one  of  two  youths  of 
eighteen,  who  stood  in  opposite  corners  of  the  bay-window, 
gazing  out  upon  the  landscape,  but  evidently  with  thoughts 
as  different  as  were  their  complexions. 

Tom  was  of  that  bull-terrier  type  so  common  in  England  ; 
sturdy,  and  yet  not  coarse :  middle-sized,  deep-chested, 
broad-shouldered  ;  with  small,  well-knit  hands  and  feet, 
large  jaw,  bright  gray  eyes,  crisp  brown  hair,  a  heavj^  pro- 
jecting brow  ;  his  face  full  of  shrewdness  and  good-nature, 
and  of  humor  withal,  which  might  be  at  whiles  a  little  saucy 
and  sarcastic,  to  judge  from  the  glances  which  he  sent  from 
the  corners  of  his  wicked  eyes  at  his  companion  on  the  other 
side  of  the  window.  He  was  evidently  prepared  for  a  day's 
shooting,  in  velveteen  jacket  and  leather  gaiters,  and  stood 
feeling  about  in  his  pockets  to  see  whether  he  had  forgotten 
any  of  his' tackle,  and  muttering  to  himself  amid  his  whis- 
tling, —  "  Capital  day  !  How  the  birds  will  lie  !  Where  on 
earth  is  old  Mark  ?  Why  must  he  wait  to  smoke  his  cigar 
after  breakfast?  Could  n't  he  have  had  it  in  the  trap,  the 
blessed  old  chimney  that  he  is  ?  " 

The  other  lad  was  somewhat  taller  than  Tom,  awkwardly 
and  plainly  dressed,  but  with  a  highly-developed  Byronic 
turn-down  collar,  and  long,  black,  curling  locks.  He  was 
certainly  handsome,  as  far  as  the  form  of  his  features  and 
brow  ;  and  would  have  been  very  handsome,  but  for  the 
bad  complexion  which  at  his  age  so  often  accompanies  a 
sedentary  life  and  a  melancholic  temper.  One  glance  at 
his  face  was  sufficient  to  tell  that  he  was  moody,  shy,  rest- 
less, perhaps  discontented,  perhaps  ambitious  and  vain. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  volume  of  Percy's  Reliques,  which  he 
had  just  taken  down  from  Thurn all's  shelves  ;  yet  he  was 
looking  not  at  it,  but  at  the  landscape.  Nevertheless,  as  he 
looked,  one  might  have  seen  that  he  was  thinking  not  so 
much  of  it  as  of  his  own  thoughts  about  it.  His  eye,  which 
was  very  large,  dark,  and  beautiful,  with  heavy  lids  and 
long  lashes,  had  that  dreamy  look  so  common  among  men 


4  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

of  the  pootio  temperament ;  conscious  of  though r.,  if  not 
conscious  of  self;  and,  as  his  face  kindled,  and  his  lips 
moved  more  and  more  earnestly,  he  began  muttering  to 
himself,  half  aloud,  till  Tom  Thurnall  burst  into  an  open 
laugh. 

"  There  's  Jack  at  it  again  !  —  making  poetry,  I  '11  bet  my 
head  to  a  China  orange." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  his  father,  looking  up  quietly,  but 
reprovingly,  as  Jack  winced  and  blushed,  and  a  dark  shade 
of  impatience  passed  across  his  face. 

"  0  !  it 's  no  concern  of  mine.  Let  everybody  please 
themselves.  The  country  looks  very  pretty,  no  doubt ;  I 
can  tell  that ;  only  my  notion  is  that  a  wise  man  ought  to 
go  out  and  enjoy  it,  —  as  I  am  going  to  do,  —  with  a  gun 
on  his  shoulder,  instead  of  poking  at  home  like  a  yard-dog, 
and  behowling  one's  self  in  po — o— oetry  ;  "  and  Tom  lifted 
up  his  voice  into  a  doleful  mastiif's  howl. 

"  Then  be  as  good  as  your  word,  Tom,  and  let  every  one 
please  themselves,"  said  the  doctor  ;  but  the  dark  youth 
bn)ke  out  in  sudden  passion. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall,  I  will  not  endure  this  1  Why 
are  you  always  making  me  your  butt,  —  insulting  me,  sir, 
even  in  your  father's  house  ?  You  do  not  understand  me  ; 
and  I  do  not  care  to  understand  you.  If  my  presence  is 
disagreeable  to  you,  I  can  easily  relieve  you  of  it  !  "  and 
th(;  dark  youth  turned  to  go  away,  like  Naaman,  in  a  rage. 
"  Stop,  John  !  "  said  the  doctor.  "  I  think  it  would  be 
the  more  courteous  plan  for  Tom  to  relieve  you  of  his  pres- 
ence. Go  and  find  Mark,  Tom  ;  and  please  to  remember 
^hat  John  Briggs  is  my  guest,  and  that  I  will  not  allow  any 
rudeness  to  him  in  my  house." 

"  I  'II  go,  daddy,  to  the  world's  end,  if  you  like,  provided 
you  won't  ask  me  to  write  poetry.  But  Jack  takes  offence 
so  soon.  Give  us  your  hand,  old  tinder-box  !  I  meant  no 
harm,  and  you  know  it." 

John  Briggs  took  the  proffered  hand  sulkily  enough,  and 
Tom  went  out  of  the  glass  door,  whistling  as  merrily  as  a 
cricket. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  the  doctor,  when  they  were  alone, 
"you  must  try  to  curb  this  temper  of  yours.  Don't  be 
angry  with  me,  but  —  " 

"  I  should  be  an  ungrateful  brute  if  I  was,  sir.  I  can 
l)ear  anything  from  you.  I  ought  to,  for  I  owe  everything 
^0  you  ;  but  —  " 


POETRY   AND    PROSE.  fc" 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  'better  is  he  that  ruleth  his  spiritj 
than  he  that  taketh  a  city.'  " 

John  Brig-gs  tapped  his  foot  on  the  ground  impatiently. 
•'  I  cannot  help  it,  sir.  It  will  dnve  me  mad,  I  think,  at 
times,  —  this  contrast  between  what  I  might  be  and  what 
I  am.  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,  mixing  medicines  here,  when 
1  might  be  educating  myself,  distinguishing  myself —  for  I 
can  do  it  I  Have  you  not  said  as  much  yourself  to  me  again 
and  again  ?  " 

"I  have,  of  course  ;  but  —  " 

"  But,  sir,  only  hear  me.  It  is  in  vain  to  ask  me  to  com- 
mand my  temper  while  I  stay  here.  I  am  not  fit  for  this 
work  ;  not  fit  for  the  dull  country.  I  am  not  appreciated, 
not  understood  ;  and  I  shall  never  be  till  I  can  get  to  Lon- 
don, —  till  I  can  find  congenial  spirits,  and  take  my  right- 
ful place  in  the  great  parliament  of  mind.  I  am  Pegasus 
in  harness,  here  !"  cried  the  vain,  discontented  youth.  "  Let 
me  but  once  get  there,  —  amid  art,  civilization,  intellect,  and 
the  company  of  men  like  that  old  Mermaid  Club,  to  hear 
and  to  answer 

'  words 
So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  fiame, 
As  one  had  put  his  whole  soul  in  a  jest  ; ' — 

and  then  you  shall  see  whether  Pegasus  has  not  wings,  and 
can  use  them,  too  !  "  And  he  stopped  suddenly,  choking 
with  emotion,  his  nostril  and  chest  dilating,  his  foot  stamp- 
ing impatiently  on  the  ground. 

The  doctor  watched  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  devil's  temptation  of  our  Lord, 

—  '  Cast  thyself  down  from  hence  ;  for  it  is  written,  IIo 
shall  give  his  angels  charge  over  thee  '  ?  " 

"I  do  ;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  me  ?  " 
"  Throw  away  the  safe  station  in  which  God  has  certainly 
put  you,  to  seek,  by  some  desperate  venture,  a  new,  and, 
as  you  fancy,  a  grander  one  for  yourself?  Look  out  of  that 
window,  lad  !  Is  there  not  poetry  enough,  beauty  and  glory 
enough,  in  that  sky,  those  fields,  —  ay,  in  every  fallen  leaf, 

—  to  employ  all  your  powers,  considerable  as  I  believe  them 
to  be  ?  Why  spurn  the  pure,  quiet,  country  life,  in  which 
such  men  as  Wordsworth  have  been  content  to  live  and 
grow  old  ?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head  like  an  impatient  hors-?.     "  Too 
slow,  too  slow  for  me,  to  wait  and  wait,  as  Wordsworth  did, 
thn  'igh  long  years  of  obscurity,  misconception,  ridicule 
1* 


6  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

No.  What  I  have  I  must  have  at  once  ;  and,  if  it  must  be, 
die  like  Chatterton,  if  only,  like  Chatterton,  I  can  have  mj 
little  day  of  success,  and  make  tlie  world  confess  that 
another  priest  of  the  beautiful  has  arisen  among  men." 

Now,  it  can  scarcely  be  denied  that  the  good  doctor  was 
guilty  of  a  certain  amount  of  weakness  in  listening  patiently 
to  all  this  rant.  Not  that  tlie  rant  was  very  bUitnable  in  a 
lad  of  eighteen  ;  for  have  we  not  all,  while  we  were  going 
through  our  course  of  Slielley,  talked  very  much  the  same 
abominable  stuft",  and  tlioiight  ourselves  the  grandest  fellows 
upon  earth  on  account  of  that  very  length  of  ear  which  was 
patent  to  all  the  world  save  our  precious  selves  ;  blinded  by 
our  self-conceit,  and  wondering  in  wrath  why  everybody 
was  laughing  at  us  ?  But  the  truth  is,  the  doctor  was  easy 
and  indulgent  to  a  fault,  and  dreaded  nothing  so  much,  save 
telling  a  lie,  as  hurting  people's  feelings  ;  beside,  as  the 
acknowledged  wise  man  of  Whitbury,  he  was  a  little  proud 
of  playing  the  Maecenas  ;  and  he  had,  and  not  unjustly,  a 
very  high  opinion  of  John  Briggs'  powers.  So  he  had  lent 
him  books,  corrected  his  taste  in  many  matters,  and,  by  dint 
of  petting  and  humoring,  had  kept  the  wayward  youth  half 
a  dozen  times  from  ruiuiing  away  from  his  father,  who  was 
an  apothecary  in  the  town,  and  from  the  general  practi- 
tioner, Mr.  Bolus,  under  whom  John  Briggs  fujfilled  the 
office  of  coiissistant  with  Tom  Thurnall.  Plenty  of  trouble 
had  both  the  lads  giv(,Mi  the  doctor  in  the  last  five  years, 
but  of  very  diflerent  kinds.  Tom,  though  he  was  in  ever- 
lasting hot  water,  as  the  most  incorrigible  scapegrace  for 
ten  miles  round,  contrived  to  confine  his  naughtiness  strictly 
to  play-hours,  while  he  learnt  everything  which  was  to  be 
learnt  with  marvellous  quickness,  and  so  utterly  fulfilled  the 
ideal  of  a  bottle-boy  (for  of  him,  too,  as  of  all  things,  I  pre- 
sume, an  ideal  exists  eternally  in  the  supra-sensual  Platonic 
universe),  that  Bolus  told  liis  father,  "  In  hours,  sir,  he 
takes  care  of  my  business  as  well  as  I  could  myself;  l>ut 
out  of  hours,  sir,  I  believe  he  is  possessed  by  seven  devils." 

John  Briggs,  on  the  other  hand,  sinned  in  the  very  oppo- 
site direction.  Too  proud  to  learn  his  business,  and  too 
proud  also  to  play  the  scapegrace  as  Tom  did,  he  neglected 
alike  work  and  amusement,  for  lazy  mooning  over  books, 
and  the  dreams  whiclv  b(.>oks  called  up.  He  made  perpetual 
mistakes  in  the  shop  ;  and  then  considered  himself  insulted 
by  an  "inferior  spirit  "  if  poor  Bolus  called  him  to  account 
for  it.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for  many  applications  of 
that  "  precious  oil  of  unity  "  with  which  the  good  doctor 


POETRY    AND    PROSE.  7 

ilaily  anointed  the  creaking  wheels  of  Whitbury  society, 
Jolin  Briggs  and  his  master  would  have  long  ago  "  broken 
out  oi"  gear/'  and  parted  company  in  mutual  wrath  and  fury 
And  now,  indeed,  the  critical  moment  seemed  come  at  last : 
for  the  lad  began  afresh  to  declare  his  deliberate  intention 
of  going  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune,  in  spite  of  parents 
ar.d  all  the  world. 

"To  live  on  here,  and  never  to  rise,  perhaps,  above  the 
post  of  correspondent  to  a  country  newspaper  !  To  publish 
a  volume  of  poems  by  subscription,  and  have  to  go  round, 
hat  in  hand,  begging  five  shillings'  worth  of  patronage  from 
every  stupid  country  squire  —  intolerable!  I  must  go! 
Shakspeare  was  never  Shakspeare  till  he  fled  from  miserable 
Stratford,  to  become  at  once  the  friend  of  Sidney  and 
Southampton." 

"  But  John  Briggs  will  be  John  Briggs  still,  if  he  went  to 
the  moon,"  shouted  Tom  Thurnall,  who  had  just  come  up  to 
the  window.  "  I  advise  you  to  change  that  name  of  yours, 
Jack,  to  Sidney,  or  Percy,  or  Walker,  if  you  like  ;  anything 
but  the  illustrious  surname  of  Briggs  the  poisoner!  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  thundered  John,  while  the 
doctor  himself  jumped  up  ;  for  Tom  was  red  with  rage. 

"  What  is  tliis,  Tom  ?  " 

"  What's  that  ?  "  screamed  Tom,  bursting,  in  spite  of  his 
passion,  into  roars  of  laughter.  "What's  that?"  —  and 
he  held  out  a  phial.  "  Smell  it !  taste  it !  0,  if  I  had  but 
a  gallon  of  it  to  pour  down  your  throat !  That 's  what  you 
brought  Mark  Armsworth  last  night,  instead  of  his  cough 
mixture,  while  your  brains  wez'e  wool-gathering  after 
poetry !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  gasped  John  Briggs. 

"  Miss  Twiddle's  black  dose  ;  —  strong  enough  to  rive  the 
gizzard  out  of  an  old  cock  !  " 

"It's  not!  " 

"It  is!"  roared  Mark  Armsworth  from  behind,  as  ho 
rushed  in,  in  shooting-jacket  and  gaiters,  his  red  face  redder 
with  fury,  his  red  wliiskers  standing  on  end  with  wrath  like 
a  tiger's,  his  left  hand  upon  his  hapless  hypogastric  region, 
his  right  brandishing  an  empty  glass,  which  smelt  strongly 
of  brandy  and  water.  "It  is  !  And  you  've  given  me  the 
cholera,  and  spoilt  my  day's  shooting;  and  if  I  don't  serve 
you  out  for  it,  there  's  no  law  in  England  !  " 

"  And  spoilt  my  day's  shooting,  too  ;  the  last  I  shall  get 
before  I  'm  off  to  Paris  !  To  have  a  day  in  Lord  Minchaiuj> 
stead's  preserves,  and  to  be  balked  of  it  in  this  way  I  " 


8  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

John  Brigg-s  stood  as  one  astonished. 

"  If  I  don't  serve  you  out  for  this  !  "  shouted  Mark. 

"If  I  don't  serve  you  out  for  it!  You  shall  never  heai 
the  last  of  it !  "  shouted  Tom.  "  I  '11  take  to  writin^r,  after 
all.  I  '11  put  it  in  the  papers.  I  '11  make  ballads  on  it,  and 
sing  'em  at  the  market-cross.  I  '11  make  the  name  of  Brigga 
the  poisoner  an  abomination  in  the  land." 

John  Briggs  turned  and  fled. 

"Well!"  said  Mark,  "I  must  spend  my  morning  at 
home,  I  suppose.  So  I  shall  just  sit  and  chat  with  you, 
doctor." 

"And  I  shall  go  and  play  with  Molly,"  said  Tom,  and 
walked  off  to  Armsworth's  garden. 

"  I  don't  care  for  myself  so  much,"  said  Mark  ;  "  but  I  'm 
sorry  the  boy  's  lost  his  last  day's  shooting." 

"  0,  you  will  be  well  enough  by  noon,  and  can  go  then  ; 
and  as  for  the  boy,  it  is  just  as  well  for  him  not  to  grow  too 
fond  of  sports  in  which  he  can  never  indulge." 

"Never  indulge?  Why  not?  He  vows  he'll  go  to 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  shoot  a  grizzly  bear  ;  and  he  '11 
do  it." 

"  He  has  a  great  deal  to  do  before  that,  poor  fellow  ;  and 
a  great  deal  to  learn." 

"  And  he  '11  learn  it.  You  're  always  down-hearted  about 
the  boy,  doctor." 

"  I  can't  help  feeling  the  parting  with  him  ;  and  for  Paris, 
too  ;  —  such  a  seat  of  temptation.  But  it  his  own  choice  ; 
and,  after  all,  he  must  see  temptation,  wherever  he  goes." 

"  Bless  the  man !  if  a  boy  means  to  go  to  the  bad,  he  'U 
go  just  as  easily  in  Whitbury  as  in  Paris.  Give  the  lad  his 
head,  and  never  fear ;  he  '11  fall  on  his  legs,  like  a  cat,  I  '11 
warrant  him,  whatever  happens.  He  's  as  steady  as  old 
Time,  I  tell  you ;  there  's  a  gray  head  on  green  shoulders 
there." 

"  Steady?  "  said  the  doctor,  with  a  smile  and  a  shrug. 

"  Steady,  I  tell  you,  at  heart ;  as  prudent  as  you  or  I ; 
and  never  lost  you  a  farthing,  that  you  know.  Hang  good 
boys  !  give  me  one  who  knows  how  to  be  naughty  in  the 
right  place ;  I  would  n't  give  sixpence  for  a  good  boy  ; 
never  was  one  myself,  and  have  no  faith  in  them.  Give  me 
the  lad  who  has  more  steam  up  than  he  knows  what  to  do 
with,  and  must  needs  blow  off  a  little  in  larks.  When  once 
he  settles  down  on  the  rail,  it  '11  send  him  along  as  steady 
as  a  luggage-train.  Did  you  never  hear  a  locomotive  puf 
Gug  and  roaring  before  it  gets  under  way  ?   well,  that  'a 


POETRY   AND   PROSE.  V 

what  your  boy  is  doing.     Look  at  him  now,  with  my  poor 
little  Molly." 

Tom  was  cantering  about  the  garden  with  a  little  weakly 
child  of  eight  in  his  arms.  The  little  thing  was  looking  up 
in  his  face  with  delight,  screaming  at  his  jokes. 

"You  are  right,  Mark;  the  boy's  heart  cannot  be  in  the 
wrong  place  while  he  is  so  fond  of  little  children." 

"  Poor  Molly  !     How    she  '11   miss   him  !     Do  you  think 
she  '11  ever  walk,  doctor  ?  " 
"I  do,  indeed." 

"  Hum  !  ah  !  well !  if  she  grows  up,  doctor,  and  don't  go 
to  join  her  poor  dear  mother  up  there,  I  don't  know  that  I  'd 
wish  her  a  better  husband  than  your  boy." 
"  It  would  be  a  poor  enough  match  for  her." 
"  Tut !  she  '11  have  the  money,  and  he  the  brains.  Mark 
my  words,  doctor,  that  boy  '11  be  a  credit  to  you  ;  he  '11 
make  a  noise  in  the  world,  or  I  know  nothing.  And  if  his 
fancy  holds  seven  years  hence,  and  he  wants  still  to  turn 
traveller,  let  him.  If  he  's  minded  to  go  round  the  world, 
I  '11  back  him  to  go,  somehow  or  other,  or  I  '11  eat  my  head, 
NedThurnall!" 

The  doctor  acquiesced  in  this  hopeful  theory,  partly  to 
save  an  argument ;  for  Mark's  reverence  for  his  opinion 
was  confined  to  scientific  matters  ;  and  he  made  up  to  his 
own  self-respect  by  patronizing  the  doctor,  and,  indeed, 
taking  him  sometimes  pretty  sharply  to  task  on  practical 
matters. 

"  Best  fellow  alive,  is  Thurnall ;  but  not  a  man  of  business, 
poor  fellow.  None  of  your  geniuses  are.  Don't  know  what 
he  'd  do  without  me." 

So  Tom  carried  Mary  about  all  the  morning,  and  went  to 
Minchampstead  in  the  afternoon,  and  got  three  hours'  good 
shooting  ;  but  in  the  evening  he  vanished  ;  and  his  father 
went  into  Armsworth's  to  look  for  him. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  where  he  is  ?  "  replied  Mark, 
looking  sly.  "  However,  as  you  can't  stop  him  now,  I  'II 
tell  you.  He  is  just  about  this  time  sewing  up  Briggs'  coat- 
sleeves,  putting  copperas  into  his  water  jug,  and  powdered 
g'alls  on  his  towel,  and  making  various  other  little  returns 
for  this  morning's  favor." 
"I  dislike  practical  jokes." 

"So  do  I;  especially  when  they  come  in  the  form  of  a 
black  dose.  Sit  down,  old  boy,  and  we  '11  have  a  game  of 
cribbage." 

In  a  few  minutes   Tom  came  in.     "Here's  a  good  rid- 


10  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

dance  1  The  poisoner  has  fabricated  his  pilgrim's  staff,  to 
Bpeak  scientifically,  and  perambulated  his  calcareous 
strata." 

"What!  " 

"  Cut  his  stick,  and  walked  his  chalks  ;  and  is  off  to 
London." 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  said  the  doctor,  much  distressed. 

"Don't  cry,  daddy;  you  can't  bring  him  back  again, 
lie  's  been  gone  these  four  hours.  I  went  to  his  room,  at 
Bolus's,  about  a  little  business,  and  saw  at  once  that  he  had 
packed  up  and  carried  off  all  he  could.  And,  looking  about, 
1  found  a  letter  directed  to  his  father.  So  to  his  father  I 
took  it ;  and  really  I  was  sorry  for  the  poor  people.  I  left 
them  all  crying  in  chorus." 

"  I  must  go  to  them  at  once  ;  "  and  up  rose  the  doctor. 

"  He  's  not  worth  the  trouble  you  take  for  him  —  the 
addle-headed,  ill-tempered  coxcomb!"  said  Mark.  "But 
it 's  just  like  your  soft-heartedness.  Tom,  sit  down,  and 
finish  the  game  with  me." 

So  vanished  from  Whitbury,  with  all  his  aspirations,  poor 
John  Briggs  ;  and  save  an  occasional  letter  to  his  parents, 
telling  them  that  he  was  alive  and  well,  no  one  heard  any- 
thing of  him  for  many  a  year.  The  doctor  tried  to  find  him 
out  in  London,  again  and  again  ;  but  without  success.  His 
letters  had  no  address  upon  them,  and  no  clue  to  his  where- 
abouts could  be  found. 

And  Tom  Thurnall  went  to  Paris,  and  became  the  best 
pistol-shot  and  billiard-player  in  the  Quartier  Latin  ;  and 
then  went  to  St.  Mumpsimus's  Hospital  in  London,  and 
became  the  best  boxer  therein,  and  captain  of  the  (iight-oar, 
beside  winning  prizes  and  certificates  without  end,  and 
becoming  in  due  time  the  most  popular  house-surgeon  in 
the  hospital ;  but  nothing  could  keep  him  permanently  at 
home.  Stay  drudging  in  London  he  would  not.  Settle 
down  in  a  country  practice  he  would  not.  Cost  his  lather 
a  fill-thing  he  would  not.  So  he  started  forth  into  the  wide 
worM  with  nothing  but  his  wits  and  his  science,  as  ana- 
tomical professor  to  a  new  college  in  some  South  American 
republic.  Unfortunately,  when  he  got  there  he  found  that 
the  annual  revolution  had  just  taken  place,  and  that  the 
party  who  had  foinided  the  college  had  been  all  shot  the 
week  before.  WMicrcat  he  whistled,  and  started  olf  again, 
no  man  knew  whither. 

"Having  got  half  round  the  world,  daddy,"  he  wrote 
home,  "it  's  hard  if  I  don't  get  round  the  other  half.     So 


POETRY    AND    PROSE.  11 

don't  expect  me  till  jou  see  me  ;  and  take  care  of  your  dear 
old  eyes." 

With  which  he  vanished  into  infinite  space,  and  was  only 
heard  of  by  occasional  letters  dated  from  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains (where  he  did  shoot  a  grizzly  bear),  the  Spanish  W'^st 
Indies,  Otahiti,  Singapore,  the  Falkland  Islands,  and  all 
manner  of  unexpected  places  ;  sending  home  valuable  notes 
(sometimes  accompanied  by  valuable  specimens)  zoological 
and  botanical ;  and  informing  his  father  that  he  was  doing 
very  well  ;  that  work  was  plentiful,  and  that  he  always  found 
two  fresh  jobs  before  he  had  finished  one  old  one. 

His  eldest  brother,  John,  died  meanwhile.  His  second 
brother,  William,  was  in  good  general  practice  in  Manches- 
ter. His  father's  connection  supported  him  comfortably  ; 
and  if  the  old  doctor  ever  longed  for  Tom  to  come  heme,  he 
never  hinted  it  to  the  wanderer,  but  bade  him  go  on  and 
prosper,  and  become  (which  he  gave  high  promise  of  becom- 
ing) a  distinguished  man  of  science.  Nevertheless  the  old 
man's  heart  sunk,  at  last,  when  month  after  month,  and  at 
last  two  full  years,  had  passed  without  any  letter  from  Tom. 

At  last,  when  full  four  years  were  past  and  gone  since 
Tom  started  for  South  America,  he  descended  from  the  box 
of  the  day-mail,  with  a  serene  and  healthful  countenance  ; 
and  with  no  more  look  of  interest  in  his  face  than  if  he  had 
been  away  on  a  two-days'  visit,  shouldered  his  carpet-bag, 
and  started  for  his  father's  house.  He  stopped,  however  ;  as 
there  appeared  from  the  inside  of  the  mail  a  face  which  he 
must  sui'ely  know.  A  second  look  told  him  that  it  was  none 
other  than  John  Briggs.  But  how  altered  !  He  had  grown 
up  into  a  very  handsome  man,  —  tall  and  delicate-featured, 
with  long  black  curls,  and  a  black  moustache.  There  was 
a  slight  stoop  about  his  shoulders,  as  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  too  much  sitting  and  writing  ;  and  he  carried  an  eye-glass, 
whether  for  fashion's  sake,  or  for  his  eyes'  sake,  was  uncer- 
tain. He  was  wrapt  in  a  long  Spanish  cloak,  new  and  good  ; 
wore  well-cut  trousers,  and  (what  Tom,  of  course,  examined 
carefully)  French  boots,  very  neat,  and  very  thin.  More- 
over, he  had  lavender  kid  gloves  on.  Tom  looked  and  won- 
dered, and  walked  half  round  him,  sniffing  like  a  dog,  when 
he  examines  into  the  character  of  a  fellow-dog. 

"  Hum  !  —  his  mark  seems  to  be  at  present  P.  P.  ■ —  pros- 
perous party  ;  so  there  can  be  no  harm  in  renewing  our 
acquaintance.  What  trade  on  earth  does  he  live  by,  though  ? 
Editor   of  a  newspaper  ?    or  keeper  of  a  gambling-table  ? 


y^,  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

Begging-  his  pardon,  he  looks  a  good  deal  more  like  the  lat 
ter  than  the  former.     However — " 

And  he  walked  up  and  oflbred  his  liaiid,  with  "How  d'e 
do,  Briggs  ?  Who  would  have  thought  of  our  falling  from 
the  skies  against  each  other  in  this  iashion  ?  " 

Mr.  Briggs  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  took  ccldly  the 
oflbred  hand. 

"  Excuse  me  ;  but  the  circumstances  of  my  visit  here  are 
too  painful  to  allow  me  to  wish  for  society." 

And  Mr.  Briggs  withdrew,  evidently  glad  to  escape. 

"Has  he  vampoosed  with  tlie  contents  of  a  till,  that  he 
wishes  so  for  solitude  ?  "  asked  Tom  ;  and,  shouldering  his 
carpet-bag  a  second  time,  with  a  grim  inward  laugh,  he 
went  to  his  father's  house,  and  hung  up  liis  hat  in  the  hall, 
just  as  if  he  had  come  in  from  a  walk,  and  walked  into  the 
study  ;  and,  not  finding  the  old  man,  stepped  through  the 
garden  to  Mark  Armsworth's,  and  in  at  the  drawing-room 
window,  frightening  out  of  her  wits  a  short,  pale,  ugly  girl 
of  seventeen,  whom  he  discovered  to  be  his  old  playfellow, 
Mary.  However,  she  soon  recovered  her  equanimity:  he 
certainly  never  lost  his. 

"  How  d'e  do,  darling?  How  yon  .ire  grown  !  and  how 
well  you  look!  How's  your  father?  I  hadn't  anything 
particular  to  do,  so  i  thought  1  'd  come  home  and  see  you 
all,  and  get  some  fishing." 

And  Mary,  who  liad  longed  to  throw  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  as  of  old,  and  was  restrained  by  the  thought  that  she 
was  grown  a  great  girl  now,  called  in  her  lather,  and  all 
the  household  ;  and  after  a  while  the  old  doctor  came  home, 
and  the  flitted  calf  was  killed,  and  all  made  merry  over  the 
return  of  this  altogether  unrepentant  prodigal  son,  who, 
whether  from  ailbctation,  or  from  that  blunted  sensibility 
which  often  comes  by  continual  change  and  wandering, 
took  all  their  aflection  and  delight  witli  the  most  provoking 
coolness. 

Nevertheless,  though  his  feelings  were  not  "  demonstra- 
hve,"  as  fine  ladies  say  now-a-days,  he  evidently  had  some 
'eft  in  some  corner  of  his  heart ;  for  alter  the  fatted  calf 
was  eaten,  and  they  were  all  settled  in  the  doctor's  study, 
it  came  out  that  his  carpet-bag  contained  little  but  presents, 
and  those  valuable  ones  —  rare  minerals  from  the  Ural  for 
his  father;  a  pair  of  Circassian  pistols  for  Mark;  and  for 
little  Mary,  to  her  astonishment,  a  Russian  malacuite  brace- 
let, at  which  Mary's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  old  ISIark 
said  — 


POETRY    AND    PROSE.  13 

"  Pretty  fellow  you  are,  to  go  fooling  your  money  away 
[ike  that !     What  did  that  gimcrack  cost,  pray,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  yours,  sir,  or  of  mine  either,  for 
I  didn't  pay  for  it." 

"  0  !  "  said  Mary,  doubtingly. 

"  No,  Mary.  I  killed  a  giant,  who  was  carrying  off  a 
beautiful  princess  ;  and  this,  you  see,  he  wore  as  a  ring  on 
one  of  his  fingers  :  so  I  thought  it  would  just  suit  your 
wrist." 

"  0,  Tom  —  Mr.  Thurnall  —  what  nonsense  !  " 

"Come,  come,"  said  his  father;  "instead  of  telling  us 
this  sort  of  stories,  you  ought  to  give  an  account  of  your- 
self, as  you  seem  quite  to  f  jrget  that  we  have  not  heard 
from  you  for  more  than  two  years." 

"Whew!  I  wrote,"  said  Tom,  "whenever  I  could. 
However,  you  can  have  all  my  letters  in  one  now." 

So  they  sat  round  the  fire,  and  Tom  gave  an  account  of 
himself;  while  his  father  marked  with  pride  that  the  young 
man  had  grown  and  strengthened  in  body  and  in  mind  ;  and 
that  under  that  nonchalant,  almost  cynical  outside,  the 
heart  still  beat  honest  and  kindly.  For,  before  Tom 
begun,  he  would  needs  draw  his  chair  close  to  his  father's, 
and  half-whispered  to  him,  — 

"  This  is  very  jolly.  I  can't  be  sentimental,  you  know, 
knocking  about  the  world  has  beat  all  that  out  of  me  ;  but 
it  is  very  comfortable,  after  all,  to  find  one's  self  safe  with  a 
dear  old  daddy,  and  a  good  coal  fire." 

"  Which  of  the  two  could  you  best  do  without  ?  " 

"  Well,  one  takes  things  as  one  finds  them.  It  don't  do 
to  look  too  deeply  into  one's  feelings.  Like  chemicals,  the 
more  you  analyze  them  the  worse  they  smell." 

So  Tom  began  his  story. 

"You  heard  from  me  at  Bombay;  after  I 'd  been  up  to 
the  Himalaya  with  an  old  Mumpsimus  friend  !  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  worked  my  way  to  Suez  on  board  a  ship  whose 
doctor  had  fallen  ill;  and  then  I  must  needs  see  a  little  of 
Egypt ;  and  there  robbed  was  I,  and  nearly  murdered  too  ; 
but  I  take  a  good  deal  of  killing." 

"I'll  warrant  you  do,"  said  Mark,  looking  at  him  with 
pride. 

"  So  I  begged  my  way  to  Cairo  ;  and  there  I  picked  up  a 

lankee  —  a  New  Yorker,  made  of  money,  who  had  a  yacht 

at  Alexandria,  and  travelled  en  prince  ;  and  nothing  would 

serve  him  but  I  must  go  with  him  to  Constantinople  ;  bul 

2 


14  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

Hiere  he  and  1  quarrelled  —  more  fools  both  of  us  !  I  wrote 
to  you  from  Constaiitiiioplc." 

"  We  never  g'ot  the  letter." 

"1  can't  help  that;  I  wrote.  But  there  I  was  on  the 
wide  world  again.  So  I  took  up  with  a  Russian  prince, 
wlu)in  I  met  at  a  gambling-table  in  Pera,  — a  mere  boy,  but 
such  a  plucky  one,  —  and  went  with  him  to  Circassia,  and 
up  to  Astrakhan,  and  on  to  the  Kh'ghis  steppes  ;  and  there 
1  did  see  snakes." 

"Snakes?"  said  Mary.  "I  should  have  thought  you 
had  seen  plenty  in  India  already." 

"  Yes,  Mary;  but  these  were  snakes  spiritual  and  meta- 
phorical. For,  poking  about  where  we  had  no  business, 
Mary,  the  Tartars  caught  us,  and  tied  us  to  their  horses' 
tails,  after  giving  me  this  scar  across  the  cheek,  and  taught 
us  to  drink  mares'  milk,  and  to  do  a  good  deal  of  dirty 
work  beside.  So  there  we  stayed  with  them  six  months, 
and  observed  their  manners,  which  were  none,  and  their 
customs,  which  were  disgusting,  as  the  midshipman  said  in 
his  diary  ;  and  had  the  honor  of  visiting  a  pleasant  little 
place  in  No-man's  Land,  called  Khiva,  which  you  may  find 
in  your  atlas,  Mary  ;  and  of  very  nearly  being  sold  for 
slaves  into  Persia,  which  would  not  have  been  pleasant ; 
and,  at  last,  Mary,  Ave  ran  away --or,  rather,  rode  away  on 
two  razor-backed  Calmuc  ponies,  and  got  back  to  Russia, 
via  Orenburg,  for  which  consult  your  atlas  again  ;  so  the 
young  prince  was  restored  to  the  bosom  of  his  afilicted 
family  ;  and  a  good  deal  of  trouble  I  had  to  get  him  safe 
there,  for  the  poor  boy's  health  gave  way.  They  wanted 
me  to  stay  with  them,  and  offered  to  make  my  fortune." 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  did  n't !  "  said  Mary. 

"  Well  :  I  wanted  to  see  little  Mary  again,  and  two 
worthy  old  gentlemen  beside,  you  see.  However,  those 
Russians  are  generous  enough.  They  filled  my  pockets, 
and  heaped  me  with  presents  ;  that  bracelet  among  them. 
What's  more,  Mary,  1  've  been  introduced  to  old  Nick  him- 
self, and  can  testify,  from  personal  experience,  to  the 
correctness  of  Shakspeare's  opinion  that  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness is  a.  gentleman." 

"  And  now  you  are  going  to  stay  at  home  ?  "  asked  the 
doctor. 

•■'  Well,  if  you  '11  take  me  in,  daddy,  I  'II  send  for  my  traps 
from  London,  and  stay  a  month  or  so." 

"  A  month  ?  "  cried  the  forlorn  father. 

"  Well,  daddy,  you  see,  there  is  a  chance  of  more  fight- 


POETRY    AND    PROSE.  15 

iug  in  Mexico,  and  I  shall  see  such  practice  there,  beside 
meeting'  old  friends  who  were  with  me  in  Texas.  And  — 
and  I  've  got  a  little  commission  too  down  in  Georgia,  that 
1  should  like  to  go  and  do." 

"  What  is  that?" 

"  Well,  it 's  a  long  story,  and  a  sad  one  ;  but  there  was  a 
poor  Yankee  surgeon  with  the  army  in  Circassia,  —  a  South- 
erner, and  a  very  good  fellow,  —  and  he  had  taken  a  fiincy 
to  some  colored  girl  at  home.  Poor  fellow,  he  used  to  go 
half  mad  about  her  sometimes,  when  he  was  talking  to  me, 
for  fear  she  should  have  been  sold,  sent  to  the  New  Orleans 
market,  or  some  other  devilry  ;  and  what  could  I  say  to 
comfort  him  ?  Well,  he  got  his  mittimus  by  one  of 
Schamyl's  bullets,  and  when  he  was  dying  he  made  me 
promise — I  hadn't  the  heart  to  refuse  —  to  take  all  his 
savings,  which  he  had  been  hoarding  for  years  for  no  other 
purpose,  and  see  if  I  could  n't  buy  the  girl,  and  get  her 
away  to  Canada.  I  was  a  fool  for  promising.  It  was  no 
concern  of  mine  ;  but  the  poor  fellow  would  n't  die  in  peace 
else.     So  what  must  be,  must." 

"  0,  go  !  go  !  "  said  Mary.  "  You  will  let  him  go,  Doctor 
Thurnall,  and  see  the  poor  girl  free  ?  Think  how  dreadful 
it  must  be  to  be  a  slave." 

"  I  will,  my  little  Miss  Mary  ;  and  for  more  reasons  than 
you  think  of.  Little  do  you  know  how  dx'eadful  it  is  to  be  a 
slave." 

"Hum!"  said  Mark  Armsworth.  "That's  a  queer 
storj'.  Tom,  have  you  got  the  poor  fellow's  money  ? 
Didn't  lose  it  when  you  were  taken  by  those  Tartars  ?  " 

"Not  I.  I  was  n't  so  green  as  to  carry  it  with  me.  It 
ought  to  have  been  in  England  six  months  ago.  My  only 
fear  is,  it's  not  enough." 

"Hum!"  said  Mark  ;  "how  much  more  do  you  think 
you  '11  want  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows.  There  is  a  thousand  dollars  ;  but  if 
she  be  half  as  beautiful  as  poor  Wyse  used  to  swear  she 
was,  I  may  want  more  than  double  that." 

"  If  you  do,  pay  it,  and  I  '11  pay  you  again.  No,  by 
George  !  "  said  Mark,  "  no  one  shall  say  that  while  Mark 
A.rmsworth  had  a  balance  at  his  banker's  he  let  a  poor 
girl — "  and,  recollecting  Mary's  presence,  he  finished  his 
Bcntence  by  sundry  stamps  and  thumps  on  the  table. 

"  You  would  soon  exhaust  your  balance,  if  you  set  to 
work  to  free  all  poor  girls  who  are  in  the  same  case  in 
Georgia,"  said  the  doctor. 


16  POETRY   AND   PROSE. 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  Them  I  don't  know  of,  and  so  1 
aii't  responsible  for  them  ;  but  this  one  I  do  know  of,  and 
so  —  there,  I  can't  ar^ue  ;  but,  Tom,  if  3'ou  want  the  money, 
you  know  where  to  liud  it." 

"Very  good.  By  the  by — I  forgot  it  till  this  moment 
—  who  should  come  down  in  the  coach  with  me  but  the  lost 
John  Briggs !  " 

"  lie  is  come  too  late,  then,"  said  the  doctor.  "  His  poor 
father  died  this  morning." 

"  Ah  !  then  Briggs  knew  that  he  was  ill  ?  That  ex- 
plains the  Maulredic  mystery  and  gloom  Avith  which  ho 
greeted  me," 

"  I  cannot  tell.  lie  has  written  from  time  to  time,  but 
he  has  never  given  any  address  ;  so  that  no  one  could  write 
in  return." 

"  He  may  have  known.  He  looked  very  downcast. 
Perhaps  that  explains  his  cutting  me  dead." 

"  Cut  you  ?  "  cried  Mark.  "  I  dare  say  he  's  been  doing 
something  he  's  ashamed  of,  and  don't  want  to  be  recognized. 
That  follow  has  been  after  no  good  all  this  while,  I  '11  war- 
rant. I  always  say  he  's  connected  with  the  swell  mob,  or 
croupier  at  a  gambling-table,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
Don't  you  think  it 's  likely,  now  ?  " 

Mark  was  in  the  habit  of  so  saying  for  the  purpose  of 
tormenting  the  doctor,  who  held  stoutly  to  his  old  belief 
that  John  Briggs  was  a  very  clever  man,  and  would  turn 
up  some  day  as  a  distinguished  literary  character. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  "  honest  or  not,  he  's  thriving  ;  came 
down  inside  the  coach,  dressed  in  the  distinguished  foreigner 
style,  with  lavender  kid  gloves  and  French  boots." 

"  Just  like  a  swell  pickpocket,"  said  Mark.  "I  always 
told  you  so,  Thurnall." 

"  He  had  the  old  Byron  collar  and  Raphael  hair,  though." 

"Nasty,  eifeminaL**,  un-English  foppery  I "  grumbled 
Mark  ;  "  so  he  may  be  in  the  scribbling  line,  after  all." 

"  I  '11  go  and  see  if  I  can  find  him,"  quoth  the  doctor. 

"Bother  you,"  said  Mark,  "always  running  out  o' 
nights  after  somebody  else's  business,  instead  of  having  a 
jolly  evening.  You  stay,  Toni,  like  a  sensible  f(.'llow,  and 
tell  me  and  Mary  some  more  travellers'  lies.  Had  much 
sporting,  boy  ?  " 

"Hum!  I've  shot  and  hunted  every  beast,  I  think, 
shootable  and  huntable,  from  a  humming-bird  to  an  ele- 
phant ;  and  I  had  some  splendid  fishing  in  Canada  ;  but 


POETP.Y  AND    PROSE.  17 

after  all,  give   me  a  Whitbury  trout,  on  a   single-handed 
Chevalier.     We  '11  at  them  to-morrow,  Mr.  Armsworth  !  " 

"  We  will,  my  boy  !  Never  so  many  fish  in  the  river  as 
this  year,  or  in  season  so  early." 

The  good  doctor  returned  ;  but  with  no  news  which 
could  throw  light  on  the  history  of  the  now  mysterious 
Mr.  John  Briggs.  He  had  locked  himself  into  the  room 
with  his  father's  corpse,  evidently  in  great  excitement  and 
grief;  spent  several  hours  walking  up  and  down  there 
alone  ;  and  had  then  gone  to  an  attorney  in  the  town,  and 
settled  everything  about  the  funeral  "in  the  handsomest 
way,"  said  the  man  of  law  ;  "  and  was  quite  the  gentleman 
in  his  manner,  but  not  much  of  a  man  of  business  ;  never 
had  thought  even  of  looking  for  his  father's  will :  and  was 
quite  surprised  when  I  told  him  that  there  ought  to  be  a 
fair  sum  —  eight  hundred  or  a  thousand,  perhaps,  to  come 
in  to  him,  if  the  stock  and  business  were  properly  disposed 
of.  So  he  went  ofi'to  London  by  the  evening  mail,  and  told 
me  to  address  him  at  a  post-office  in  some  street  off  the 
Strand.     Queer  business,  sir,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

John  Briggs  did  not  reappear  till  a  few  minutes  before 
his  father's  funeral,  witnessed  the  ceremony  evidently  with 
great  sorrow,  bowed  off  silently  all  who  attempted  to  speak 
to  him,  and  returned  to  London  by  the  next  coach, — leav- 
ing matter  for  much  babble  among  all  Whitbury  gossips. 
One  thing  at  least  was  plain,  that  he  wished  to  be  forgotten 
in  his  native  town  ;  and  forgotten  he  was,  in  due  course 
of  time. 

Tom  Thurnall  stayed  his  month  at  home,  and  then  went 
to  America ;  whence  he  wrote  home,  in  about  six  months, 
a  letter,  of  which  only  one  paragraph  need  interest  us. 

"  Tell  Mark  I  have  no  need  for  his  dollars.  1  have  done 
the  deed  ;  and,  thanks  to  the  underground  railway,  done  it 
nearly  gratis  ;  which  was  both  cheaper  than  buying  her, 
and  infinitely  better  for  me  ;  so  that  she  has  all  poor 
Wyee's  dollars  to  start  with  afresh  in  Canada.  I  write  this 
from  New  York.  I  could  accompany  her  no  further,  for 
I  must  get  back  to  the  South  in  time  for  the  Mexican 
expedition.'' 

Then  came  a  long  and  anxious  silence  ;  and  then  a  letter, 
"ot  from  Mexico,  but  from  California,  —  one  out  of  several 
which  had  been  posted  ;  and  then  letters,  more  regularl3^ 
from  Australia.  Sickened  with  California  life,  he  had 
crossed  the  Pacific  once  more,  and  was  hard  at  work  in  the 
diggings,  doctoring  and  gold-finding  by  turns 
2* 


18  POETRY   AND    PROSE. 

"  A.  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss,"  said  his  father. 

"  He  lias  the  pluck  of  a  hound,  and  the  cunning  of  a 
fox,"  said  Mark  ;  "  and  he  '11  be  a  credit  to  you  yet." 

And  Mary  prayed  every  morning  and  night  for  her  old 
playiellow  ;  and  so  the  years  slipped  on  till  the  autumn 

of  1853. 

As  no  one  has  heard  of  Tom  now  for  eight  months  and 
more  (the  pulse  of  Australian  postage  being  of  a  somewhat 
intermittent  type),  we  may  as  well  go  and  look  for  him. 

A  sheet  of  dark  rolling  ground,  quarried  into  a  gigantic 
rabbit  burrow,  with  hundreds  of  tents  and  huts  dotted 
about  among  the  heaps  of  rubbish  ;  dark  evergreen  forests 
in  the  distance,  and,  above  all,  the  great  volcanic  mountain 
of  Buninyong  towering  far  aloft  —  these  are  the  "  Black 
Hills  of  liallarat  ;  "  and  that  windlass  at  that  shaft's  mouth 
belongs  in  part  to  Tliomas  Thurnall. 

At  the  windlass  are  standing  two  men,  whom  we  may 
have  seen,  in  past  years,  self-satisfied  in  countenance,  and 
spotless  in  array,  sauntering  down  Piccadilly  any  July 
afternoon,  or  lounging  in  Haggis's  stable-yard  at  Cambridge 
any  autumn  morning.  Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fast 
young  undergraduates,  with  powers  of  enjoyment  only 
equalled  by  their  powers  of  running  into  debt,  are  those 
two  black-bearded  and  mud-bespattered  ruffians,  who  once 
were  Smith  and  Brown  of  Trinity.  Yet  who  need  pity 
tliem,  as  long  as  they  have  stouter  limbs,  healthier  stomachs, 
and  clearer  "consciences,  than  they  have  had  since  they  left 
Eton  at  seventeen  ?  Would  Smith  have  been  a  happier 
man  as  a  briefless  barrister  in  a  dingy  Inn  of  Law,  peeping 
now  and  then  into  third-rate  London  society,  and  scribbling 
for  the  daily  press?  Would  Brown  have  been  a  happier 
man  had  he  been  forced  into  those  holy  orders  for  which  he 
never  felt  the  least  vocation,  to  pay  off  his  college  debts 
out  of  his  curate's  income,  and  settle  down  on  his  lees  at 
last,  in  the  family  living  of  Nomansland-cum-Clayhole,  and 
support  a  wife  and  five  children  on  five  hundred  a  year, 
exclusive  of  rates  and  taxes  ?     Let  them  dig,  and  be  men. 

The  windlass  rattles,  and  the  rope  goes  down.  A  sliout 
from  the  bottom  of  the  shaft  proclaims  all  right  ;  and  in 
Jue  time,  sitting  in  the  noose  of  the  rope,  up  comes  Thomaa 
Thurnall,  barefooted  and  barelieaded,  in  flannel  frousera 
and  red  jersey,  begrimed  witli  slush  and  mud  ;  with  a 
maliogany  face,  a  brick-red  neck,  and  a  huge  brown  beard, 
looking,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "  as  jolly  as  a  sand- 
boy." 


POETRY   AND    PROSE.  19 

"  A  letter  for  you,  doctoi-,  from  Europe." 

Tom  takes  it,  and  his  countenance  falls  ;  for  it  is  black- 
edged  and  black-sealed.  The  handwriting  is  Mary  Arms- 
worth's. 

"I  suppose  the  old  lady  who  is  going  to  leave  me  a  for- 
'tune  is  dead,"  says  he,  dryly,  and  turns  away  to  read. 

"  Bad  luck,  I  suppose,"  he  says  to  himself  "  I  have 
not  had  any  for  full  six  months,  so  I  suppose  it  is  tinte  foi 
Dame  Fortune  to  give  me  a  sly  stab  again.  I  only  hope  it 
is  not  my  father ;  for,  begging  the  dame's  pardon,  1  can  » 
bear  any  trick  of  hers  but  that."  And  he  sets  his  teeth 
doggedly,  and  reads. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Thurnall,  —  My  father  would  have 
written  himself,  but  he  thought,  I  don't  know  why,  that  I 
could  tell  you  better  than  he.  Your  father  is  quite  well  in 
health,"  —  Thurnall  breathes  freely  again,  —  "but  he  has 
had  heavy  trials  since  your  poor  brother  William's  death." 

Tom  opens  his  eyes  and  sets  his  teeth  more  firmly. 
"  Willy  dead  ?  I  suppose  there  is  a  letter  lost :  better  so  ; 
better  to  have  the  whole  list  of  troubles  together,  and  so 
get  them  sooner  over.     Poor  Will  !  " 

"  Your  father  caught  the  scarlet  fever  from  him,  while 
he  was  attending  him,  and  was  very  ill  after  he  came  back. 
He  is  quite  well  again  now ;  but,  if  I  must  tell  you  the 
truth,  the  disease  has  afl'ected  his  eyes.  You  know  how 
weak  they  always  were,  and  how  much  worse  they  have 
grown  of  late  years  ;  and  the  doctors  are  afraid  that  he 
has  little  chance  of  recovering  the  sight,  at  least  of  the  left 
eye." 

"Recovering?  He 's  blind,  then  !  "  And  Tom  set  his 
teeth  more  tightly  than  ever.  lie  felt  a  sob  rise  in  his 
throat,  but  choked  it  down,  shaking  his  head  like  an  impa- 
tient bull. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Tom,"  said  he  to  himself,  "before  you  have 
it  out  with  Dame  Fortune.  There 's  more  behind,  I  '11 
warrant.  News  like  this  lies  in  pockets,  and  not  in  single 
nuggets."     And  he  read  on  — 

"  And  —  for  it  is  better  you  should  know  all  —  something 
has  happened  to  the  railroad  in  which  he  had  invested  so 
much.  My  father  has  lost  money  in  it  also  ;  but  not  much  ; 
but  I  I'.-ar  that  your  poor  dear  father  is  very  much  straitened. 
My  father  is  dreadfully  vexed  about  it,  and  thinks  it  all  his 
fault  in  not  having  watched  the  matter  more  closely,  and 
made  your  father  sell  out  in  time  ;  and  he  wants  your  father 
to  come  and  live  with  us,  but  he  will  not  hear  of  it.     So 


20  POETRY    AND    PROSE. 

ho  has  given  up  the  old  house,  and  taken  one  in  Water 
street,  and,  0  !  1  need  not  tell  you  tliat  we  are  there  every 
day,  and  that  I  am  trying  to  make  him  happy  as  I  can  — 
but  what  can  I  do?"  And  then  fblluwed  kind  womanly 
uomnion-places,  which  Tom  hurried  over  with  lierce  im- 
patience. 

"lie  wants  you  to  come  home;  but  my  father  has 
entre?ited  him  to  let  you  stay.  You  know,  while  we  are 
here,  he  is  safe  ;  and  my  lather  begs  you  not  to  come  home, 
if  you  are  succeeding  as  well  as  you  have  been  dt)ing." 

There  was  much  more  in  the  letter,  which  I  need  not 
repeat ;  and,  after  all,  a  short  postscript  by  Mark  him- 
self followed  :  — 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  boy,  and  keep  up  heart ;  while  I 
have  a  pound,  your  father  shall  have  half  of  it ;  and  you 
know  Mark  Arinsworth." 

He  walked  away  slowly  into  the  forest.  He  felt  that  the 
crisis  of  his  life  was  come  ;  that  he  must  turn  his  hand  hence- 
forth to  quite  new  work  ;  and  as  he  went  he  "  took  stock," 
as  it  were,  of  his  own  soul,  to  see  what  point  he  had  attained 
— what  he  could  do. 

Fifteen  years  of  adventure  had  hardened  into  wrought  metal 
a  character  never  very  ductile.  Tom  was  now,  in  his  own 
way,  an  altogether  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  who 
knew  (at  least  in  all  companies  and  places  where  he  was 
likely  to  find  himself)  exactly  what  to  say,  to  do,  to  make,  to 
seek,  a,nd  to  avoid.  Shifty  and  thrifty  as  old  Greek,  or  mod- 
ern Scot,  there  were  few  things  he  could  not  invent,  and 
perhaps  nothing  he  could  not  endure.  He  had  watched 
human  nature  under  every  disguise,  from  the  pomp  of  the 
ambassador  to  the  war-paint  of  the  savage,  and  formed  his 
own  clear,  hard,  shallow,  practical  estimate  thereof.  He 
looked  on  it  as  his  raw  material,  which  he  had  to  work  up 
into  subsistence  and  comfort  for  himself.  He  did  not  wish 
to  live  on  men,  but  live  by  them  he  must ;  and  for  that  pur- 
pose he  must  study  them,  and  especially  their  weaknesses. 
He  would  not  cheat  them  ;  for  there  was  in  him  an  innate 
vein  of  honesty,  so  surly  and  ex[)l()sive,  at  times,  as  to  give 
'\iin  much  trouble.  The  severest  part  of  his  self-education 
nad  been  the  repression  of  his  dangerous  inclination  to  call 
a  sham  a  sham  on  the  spot,  and  to  answer  fools  according 
to  their  folly.  That  youthful  rashness,  however,  was  now 
well-nigh  subdued,  and  Tom  could  flatter  and  bully  also, 
when  it  served  his  turn  —  as  who  cannot  r'  IjCt  him  that  is 
tvithout  sin  among  my  readers  cast  the  first  stone.     Self- 


POETRY    AND    PROSE. 


21 


conscious  he  was,  therefore,  in  every  word  and  action  ;  not 
from   morbid    zanity,  but  a  necessary  consequence  of  his 
mode  of  life.     He  had  to  use  men,  and  therefore  to  watch 
how  he  used  them  ;  to  watch  every  word,  gesture,  tone  of 
voice,  and,  in  all  times  and  places,  do  the  fitting  thing.     It 
was  hard  work  ;  but  necessary  for  a  man  who  stood  alone 
and  self-poised  in  the  midst  of  the  universe  ;  tashioning  for 
himself  everywhere,  just  as  far  as  his  arm  could  reach,  some 
not  intolerable  condition  ;  depending  on  nothing  but  himself, 
and  caring  for  little  but  himself  and  the  father  whom,  to  do 
him  justice,  he  never  forgot.     If  I  wished  to  define  Tom 
Thurnall   by  one   epithet,  I    should  call   him    specially  an 
ungodly  man  —  were  it  not  that  scriptural  epithets  have  now- 
a-days  such  altogether  conventional  and  official  nieanings, 
that  one  fears  to  convey,  in  using  them,  some  notion  quite 
foreign  to  the  truth.     Tom  was  certaiidy  not  one  of  those 
ungodly  whom  David  had  to  deal  with  of  old,  who  robbed 
the  widow,  and  put  the  fatherless  to  death.     His  morality 
was  as  high  as  that  of  the  average  ;  his  sense  of  honor  far 
higher.     lie  was  generous  and  kind-hearted.     No  one  ever 
heard  him  tell  a  lie  ;  and  he  had  a  blunt  honesty  about  him, 
half  real,  because  he  liked  to  be  honest,  and  yet  half  afiected 
too,  because  he  found  it  pay  in  the  long  run,  and  because  it 
threw  off  their  guard  the  people  whom  he  intended  to  make 
liis  tools.     But  of  godliness  in  its  true  sense  —  of  belief  that 
any  Being  above  cared  for  him,  and  was  helping  him  in  the 
daily  business  of  life  —  that  it  was  worth  while  asking  that 
Being's  advice,  or  that  any  advice  would  be  given  if  asked 
for ;    of  any  practical    notion    of  a   heavenly  Father,  or  a 
Divine  education  —  Tom  was  as  ignorant  —  as  thousands  of 
respectable  people  who  go  to  church    every  Sunday,  and 
read  good  books,  and  believe  firmly  that  the  Pope  is  Anti- 
christ.      He  ought   to    have  learnt   it,  no  doubt ;    for   his 
father  was  a  religious  man  ;  but  he  had  not  learnt  it  —  any 
more  than  thousands  learn  it,  who  have  likewise  religious 
parents.     He  had  been  taught,  of  course,  the  common  doc- 
trines and  duties  of  religion  ;  but  early  remembrances  had 
been  rubbed  out,  as  off  a  school-boy's  slate,  by  the  mere  cur- 
rent of  Tiew  thoughts  and  objects,  in  his  continual  wander- 
ings.    Disappointments  he  had  had,  and  dangers  in  plenty  ; 
but  only  such  as  rouse  a  brave  and  cheerful  spirit  to  bolder 
self-reliance  and  invention  ;  not  those  deep  sorrows  of  the 
heart  which  leave  a  man  helpless  in  the  lowest  pit,  crying  for 
help  from  without,  for  there  is  none  within.     He  had  seen 
men  of  all  creedn,  and  had  found  in  all  alike  (so  he  held) 


22  POETRY   AND    PROSE. 

the  many  rogues,  and  the  few  honest  men.  All  religions  were, 
in  his  eyes,  equally  true  and  equally  false.  Superior  mo- 
rality was  owing  principally  to  the  inlluences  of  race  and  cli- 
mate ;  and  devotional  experiences  (to  judge,  at  least,  from 
American  camp-meetings  and  popish  cities)  the  results  of  a 
diseased  nervous  system. 

Upon  a  man  so  hard  and  strong  this  fearful  blow  had  fallen, 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  took  it  like  a  man.  He  wandered 
on  and  on  for  an  hour  or  more,  up  the  hills,  and  into  the 
forest,  talking  to  himself. 

"Poor  old  Willie  !  1  should  have  liked  to  have  looked  into 
his  honest  face  before  he  went,  if  only  to  make  sure  that  ^ve 
were  good  friends.  I  used  to  plague  him  sadly  with  my 
tricks.  But  what  is  the  use  of  wishing  ibr  Avluit  cannot  be  ? 
I  recollect  I  had  just  the  same  feeling  when  John  died  ;  and 
yet  I  got  over  it  after  a  time,  and  was  as  cheerful  as  if  he 
were  alive  again,  or  had  never  lived  at  all.  And  so  I  shall 
get  over  this.  Why  should  I  give  wa}'  to  what  I  know  will 
pass,  and  is  meant  to  pass  ?  It  is  my  father  I  feel  for.  But  I 
couldn't  be  there  ;  and  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  was  not 
there.  No  one  told  me  what  was  going  to  happen  ;  and  no 
one  could  know:  so  again, — why  grieve  over  what  can't 
be  helped  ?  " 

And  then,  to  give  the  lie  to  all  his  cool  arguments,  he  sat 
down  among  the  fern,  and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying, 
"  0,  my  poor,  dear  old  daddy  !  " 

Yes  ;  beneath  all  the  hard  crust  of  years,  that  fountain  of 
life  still  lay  pure  as  when  it  came  down  from  heaven  — love 
for  his  father. 

"  Come,  come,  this  won't  do  !  this  is  not  the  way  to  take 
stock  of  my  goods,  either  mental  or  worldly.  I  can't  cry 
the  dear  old  man  out  of  this  scrape." 

He  looked  up.  The  sun  was  setting.  Beneath  the  dark 
roof  of  evergreens  the  eucalyptus  boles  stood  out,  like 
basalt  pillars,  black  against  a  background  of  burning  flame. 
The  flying  foxes  shot  from  tree  to  tree,  and  moths  as  big  aa 
sparrows  whirred  about  the  trunks,  one  moment  black 
against  the  glare  beyond,  and  vanishing  the  next,  like  imps 
of  darkness,  into  their  native  gloom.  There  was  no  sound 
•jf  living  thing  around,  save  the  ghastly  rattle  of  the  dead 
bark-tassels  which  swung  from  every  tree,  and,  far  away, 
the  faint  clicking  of  the  diggers  at  their  work,  like  the  rus- 
tle of  a  gigantic  ant-hill.  Was  there  one  among  them  all 
who  cared  for  him?  who  would  not  forget  him  in  a  week 
with  —  "Well,  he  was   pleasant  company,  poor  fellow!" 


POETRY   AND    PROSE.  23 

and  go  on  digging,  without  a  sigh  ?  AVhat,  if  it  were  his 
fate  to  die,  as  he  had  seen  nriany  a  stronger  man,  there  in 
that  lonely  wilderness,  and  sleep  forever,  unhonored  and 
unknown,  beneath  that  awful  forest-roof,  while  his  father 
looked  for  bread  to  others'  hands  ? 

No  man  was  less  sentimental,  no  man  less  superstitious, 
than  Thomas  Thurnall ;  but  crushed  and  softened  —  all  but 
terrified  (as  who  would  not  have  been?)  —  by  that  day's 
news,  he  could  not  struggle  against  the  weight  of  loneliness 
which  fell  upon  him.  For  the  first  and  last  time,  perhaps, 
in  his  life,  he  felt  tear;  a  vague,  awful  dread  of  unseen  and 
inevitable  possibilities.  Why  should  not  calamity  fall  on 
him,  wave  after  wave  ?  Was  it  not  falling  on  him  already  i* 
Why  should  he  not  grow  sick  to-morrow,  break  his  leg,  his 
neck  —  why  not?  What  guarantee  had  he  in  earth  or 
heaven  that  he  might  not  be  •'snufted  out  silently,"  as  he 
had  seen  hundi-eds  already,  and  die  and  leave  no  sign  ? 
And  there  sprung  up  in  him  at  once  the  intensest  yearning 
after  his  father  and  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood,  and  th.c  wild- 
est dread  that  he  should  never  see  them.  Might  not  his 
father  be  dead  ere  he  could  retui-n  ?  —  if  ever  he  did  return. 
That  twelve  thousand  miles  of  sea  looked  to  him  a  gulf 
impassable.  0,  that  he  were  safe  at  home  !  that  he  could 
start  that  moment !  And  for  one  minute  a  helplessness,  as 
of  a  lost  child,  came  over  him. 

Perhaps  it  had  been  well  ior  him  had  he  given  that  feeling 
vent,  and,  confessing  himself  a  lost  child,  cried  out  of  the 
darkness  to  a  Father ;  but  the  next  minute  he  had  dashed  it 
proudly  away. 

"  Pretty  baby  I  am,  to  get  frightened,  at  my  time  of  life, 
because  1  find  myself  in  a  dark  wood  —  and  the  sun  shining 
all  the  while  as  jollily  as  ever  away  there  in  the  west!  It 
is  morning  somewhere  or  other  now,  and  it  will  be  morning 
here  again  to-morrow.  '  Good  times  and  bad  times,  and  all 
times,  pass  over ; '  —  I  learnt  that  lesson  out  of  old  Be- 
wick's vignettes,  and  it  has  stood  me  in  good  stead  this 
many  a  year,  and  shall  now.  Die? — Nonsense!  I  take 
more  killing  than  that  comes  to.  So,  for  one  more  bout 
with  old  Dame  Fortune  1  If  she  throws  me  again,  why,  1  '11 
get  up  again,  as  I  have  any  time  these  fifteen  years.  Mark  's 
rigrit.  1  '11  stay  here  and  work  till  I  make  a  hit,  or  luck 
runs  dry,  and  then  home  and  settle  ;  and,  meanwhile,  I  'II 
go  down  to  Melbourne  to-morrow,  and  send  the  dear  old 
man  two  hundred  pounds  ;  and  then  back  again  here,  and 
to  it  again." 


24  POETRY    AND    PR09F. 

And,  with  a  fate-defiant  smile,  half  bitter  and  half  cheer 
fill,    Tom   rose   and  went   down   again  to  his  mates,    and 
stopped  their  inquiries  bj^  —  "  What 's  done  can't  be  mend- 
ed, and   need  n't  bi  mentioned  ;   whining  won't  make  me 
work  the  harder,  and  harder  than  ever  I  must  work." 

Strangle  it  is,  how  mortal  n).in,  "who  Cometh  up  and  ifj 
cut  down  like  the  flower,"  can  thus  harden  himself  into  lUo' 
ical  security,  and  count  on  the  morrow,  which  may  never 
come.  Yet  so  it  is  ;  and,  perhaps,  if  it  W(M-e  not  so,  no  work 
would  get  done  on  earth  —  at  least,  by  the  many  who  know 
not  that  God  is  guiding  them,  while  they  fancy  that  thej 
are  guiding  themselves. 


CHAPTER    II. 

STILL   LIFE. 

I  MU3T  now,  if  I  am  to  bring  you  to  "  Two  years  ago," 
and  to  my  story,  as  it  was  told  to  me,  ask  you  to  follow  me 
into  the  good  old  West  Country,  and  set  you  down  at  the 
back  of  an  old  harbor  pier  ;  thirty  feet  of  gray  and  brown 
boulders,  spotted  aloft  with  bright  yellow  lichens,  and  black 
drops  of  tar  ;  polished  lower  down  by  the  surge  of  centu- 
ries, and  towards  the  foot  of  the  wall  roughened  with  crusts 
of  barnacles,  and  mussel-nests  in  crack  and  cranny,  and  fes- 
toons of  coarse  dripping  weed. 

On  a  low  rock  at  its  foot,  her  back  resting  against  the 
Cyclopean  wall,  sits  a  young  woman  of  eight-and-twenty, 
soberly,  almost  primly  dressed,  with  three  or  four  tiny  chil- 
dren clustering  round  her.  In  front  of  them,  on  a  narrow 
spit  of  sand  between  the  rocks,  a  dozen  little  girls  are 
laughing,  romping,  and  pattering  about,  turning  the  stones 
for  "  shannies  "  and  "  bullies,"  and  other  luckless  fish  left  by 
the  tide  ;  while  the  party  beneath  the  pier  wall  looked 
steadfastly  down  into  a  little  rock-pool  at  their  feet,  —  full 
of  the  pink  and  green  and  purple  cut-work  of  delicate  weeds 
and  coralline,  and  starred  with  great  sea-dahlias,  crimson 
and  brown  and  gray,  and  with  the  waving  snake-locks  of  the 
Cereus,  pale  blue,  and  rose-tipped  like  the  fingers  of  the 
dawn.  One  delicate  Medusa  is  sliding  across  the  pool,  by 
slow  pantings  of  its  crystal  bell ;  and  on  it  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  group  are  fixed  ;  for  it  seems  to  be  the  subject  of 
some  story,  which  the  village  schoolmistress  is  finishing  in 
a  sweet,  half-abstracted  voice, — 

"  And  so  the  cruel  soldier  was  changed  into  a  great 
rough  r^d  starfish,  who  goes  about  killing  the  poor  mussels, 
while  nobody  loves  him,  or  cares  to  take  his  part ;  and  the 
poor  little  girl  was  changed  into  a  beautiful  bright  jelly-fish, 
like  that  one,  who  swims  about  all  day  in  the  pleasant  sun- 
shine, with  a  red  cross  stamped  on  its  heart." 

"  0,  mistress  what  a  pretty  story  !  "  cry  the  little  ones, 
3  (ifi) 


26  STILL   LIFE- 

with  tearful  eyes.  "  And  what  sliall  wq  be  chang'ed  to 
when  we  die  ?  " 

"If  we  will  only  be  good,  we  shall  o-o  up  to  Jesus,  and 
be  beautiful  ang-els,  and  sing  hymns.  NVcnild  that  it  might 
be  soon,  soon  ;  for  you  and  me,  and  all !  "  And  she  draws 
the  children  to  her,  and  looks  upward,  as  if  longing  to  bear 
them  with  her  ah)ft. 

Let  us  leave  the  conversation  where  it  is,  and  look  into 
the  face  of  the  speaker,  who,  young  as  she  is,  has  already 
meditated  so  long  upon  the  mystery  of  death  that  it  has 
g  -own  lovely  in  her  eyes. 

Her  figure  is  tall,  graceful,  and  sliglit ;  the  severity  of  its 
outlines  suiting  well  with  the  severity  of  her  dress,  with 
the  brown  stuft'gown,  and  plain  gray  wliittle.  Her  neck  is 
long,  almost  too  long ;  but  all  defects  are  furgotten  in  the 
first  look  at  her  face.  We  can  see  it  fully,  for  her  bonnet 
lies  beside  her  on  the  rock. 

The  masque,  though  thin,  is  perfect.  The  brow,  like  that 
of  a  Greek  statue,  looks  lower  than  it  really  is,  for  the  hair 
springs  from  below  the  bend  of  the  forehead.  The  brain  is 
very  long,  and  sweeps  backward  and  upward  in  grand 
curves,  till  it  attains  above  the  ears  a  great  expanse  and 
height.  She  should  be  a  character  more  able  to  feel  than 
to  argue  ;  full  of  all  a  Avoman's  veneration,  devotion,  love 
of  children,  —  perhaps,  too,  of  a  woman's  anxiety. 

The  nose  is  slightly  aquiline  ;  the  sharp-cut  nostrils  indi- 
cate a  reserve  of  compressed  strength  and  passion  ;  the 
mouth  is  delicate  ;  the  lips,  which  are  full,  and  somewhat 
heavy,  not  from  coarseness,  but  rather  from  languor,  show 
somewhat  of  both  the  upper  and  the  under  teeth.  Her  eyes 
are  bent  on  the  pool  at  her  feet ;  so  that  we  can  see  nothing 
of  them  but  the  large  sleepy  lids,  fringed  with  lashes  so 
long  and  dark  that  the  eye  looks  as  if  it  had  been  painted, 
in  the  eastern  fashion,  with  antimony  ;  the  dark  lashes,  dark 
eyebrows,  dark  hair,  crisped  —  as  West-country  hair  so 
often  is  —  to  its  very  roots,  increase  the  almost  ghost-like 
paleness  of  the  face,  not  sallow,  not  snow-white,  but  of  a 
clear,  bloodless,  waxen  hue. 

And  now  she  lifts  her  eyes,  —  dark  eyes,  of  preternatural 
largeness  ;  brilliant,  too,  but  not  with  the  sparkle  of  the 
diamond  ;  ]>ril]iant  as  deep,  clear  wells  are,  in  which  the 
mellow  moonlight  sleeps  fathom-deep,  between  black  walls 
of  rock  ;  and  round  them,  and  round  the  wide-opened  lids, 
and  arching  eyebrow,  and  slightly  wrinkled  fonjhcad,  hangs 
an    air    uf  melancholy    thought,    vague    doubt,    almost    of 


STILL  LIFE.  27 

startled  fear ;  then  that  expression  passes,  and  the  \vl,iolo 
face  collapses  into  a  languor  of  patient  sadness,  which 
seems  to  say  —  "I  cannot  solve  the  mystery.  Let  Him 
solve  it  as  seems  good  to  Him." 

The  pier  has,  as  usual,  two  stages;  the  upper  and  nar- 
rower for  a  public  promenade,  the  lower  and  broader  one 
for  business.  Two  rough  collier-lads,  strangers  to  the 
place,  are  lounging  on  the  wall  above,  and  begin,  out  of 
mere  mischief,  dropping  pebbles  on  the  group  below. 

"  Ilillo  !  you  young  rascals,"  calls  an  old  man,  loung- 
ing like  them  on  the  wall  ;  "  if  you  don't  drop  that,  you  're 
likely  to  get  your  heads  broken." 

"  Will  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  would  thirty  years  ago  ;  but  I  '11  find  a  dozen  in  five 
minutes  who  will  do  it  now.  Here,  lads  !  here's  two  Welsh 
vagabonds  pelting  our  sclioolmistress." 

This  is  spoken  to  a  group  of  Sea-Titans,  who  are  sitting 
about  on  the  pier-way  behind  him,  in  red  caps,  blue  jackets, 
striped  jei'seys,  bright  brown  trousers,  and  all  the  pictu- 
resque comfort  of  a  fisherman's  costume,  superintending  the 
mending  of  a  boat. 

Up  jump  half-a-dozen  off  the  logs  and  baulkings,  where 
they  have  been  squatting,  doubled  up  knee  to  nose,  after 
the  fashion  of  their  class  ;  and  a  volley  of  execrations,  like  a 
storm  of  grape,  almost  blows  the  two  offenders  off  the  wall. 
The  bolder,  however,  lingers,  anathematizing  in  turn ; 
whereon  a  black-bearded  youth,  some  six  feet  four  in  height, 
catches  up  an  oar,  makes  a  sweep  at  the  shins  of  the  lad 
above  his  head,  and  brings  him  writhing  down  upon  the 
upper  piei'-way,  whence  he  walks  off  howling,  and  mutter- 
ing threats  of  "  taking  the  law."  In  vain  ;  —  there  is  not  a 
magistrate  within  ten  miles  ;  and  custom,  Lj'nch-law,  and 
the  coast-guard  lieutenant,  settle  all  matters  in  Aberalva 
town,  and  do  so  easily  enough  ;  for  the  petty  crimes  which 
fill  our  jails  are  all  unknown  among  those  honest  Vikings' 
sons  :  and  any  man  who  covets  his  neighbor's  goods,  instead 
of  stealing  them,  has  only  to  go  and  borrow  them,  on  condi- 
tion, of  course,  of  lending  in  his  turn. 

"  What 's  that  collier-lad  hollering  about,  Captain  Wil 
lis  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Tardrew,  steward  to  Lord  Scoutbush,  land- 
lord of  Aberalva,  as  he  comes  up  to  the  old  man. 

"  Gentleman  Jan  cut  him  over,  for  pelting  the  school- 
mistress below  here." 

"Serve  him  right;  he'll  have  to  cut  over  that  curata 
Dext,  I  reckon." 


28  STILL  LIFE. 

"  0,  Mr.  Tardrew,  don't  you  talk  so  !  The  young  gentle 
man  is  as  kind  a  man  as  I  ever  saw,  and  comes  in  and  out 
Diour  house  like  a  lamb." 

"  Woir  in  sheep's  clothing,"  growls  Tardrew.  "What 
d'  je  think  he  says  to  me  last  week  ?  Wanted  to  turn  the 
5c1h)  jlmistress  out  of  her  place  because  she  went  to  chapel 
sometimes." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  replied  Willis,  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  wished  to  avoid  a  painful  subject.  "And  what  did  you 
answer,  tluni,  Mr.  Tardrew  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  he  niii;ht  if  he  liked  :  but  ho  'd  make  the 
place  too  hot  to  hold  him,  if  he  had  n't  done  it  already,  with 
his  bowings  and  his  crossings,  and  his  chanlings,  and  his 
Topish  Gregories,  —  and  tells  one  he  's  no  Papist ;  —  called 
him  Pope  Gregory  himself.  What  do  we  want  with  popes' 
tunes  here,  instead  of  the  Old  Hundredth  and  Martyrdom  ? 
I  should  like  to  see  any  Pope  of  the  lot  make  a  tune  like 
them." 

Captain  Willis  listened,  with  a  foce  half  sad,  half  slyly 
amused.  He  and  Tardrew  were  old  friends  ;  being  the  two 
most  notable  persons  in  the  parish,  save  Jones  tlie  lieuten- 
ant, Heale  the  doctor,  and  another  gentleman,  of  whom  we 
shall  speak  presently.  Both  of  them,  too,  were  thorough- 
going Protestants,  and,  though  Churchmen,  walked  some- 
times into  the  Brianite  Chapel  of  an  afternoon,  and  thought 
no  sin.  But  each  took  the  curate's  "  Puseyism  "  in  a  dif 
ferent  way,  being  two  men  as  unlike  each  other  as  one  could 
we'll  find. 

Tardrew  —  steward  to  Lord  Scoutbush,  the  absentee 
landlord  —  was  a  shrewd,  hard-bitten,  choleric  old  fellow, 
of  the  shape,  color  and  consistence,  of  a  red  brick  ;  one  of 
those  English  types  which  Mr.  Emerson  has  so  well  hit  off 
in  his  rather  confused  and  contradictory  "  Traits  "  : 

"  lie  hides  virtues  under  vices,  or,  rather,  under  the  sem- 
blance of  th(>m.  It  is  the  misshapen,  hairy,  Scandinavian 
Troll  again,  who  lifts  the  cart  out  of  the  mire,  or  threshes 
the  corn  which  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end  ;  but  it  is 
done  in  the  dark,  and  with  muttered  maledictions.  He  is  a 
churl  with  a  soft  place  in  his  heart,  whose  speech  is  a  brash 
of  bitter  waters,  but  who  loves  to  help  you  at  a  pinch.  He 
says.  No  ;  and  serves  you,  and  his  thanks  disgust  you." 
Such  was  Tardrew,  — a  true  British  bull-dog,  who  lived 
pretty  faithfully  up  to  his  Old  Testament,  but  had,  some- 
tew,  forgotten  the  existence  of  the  New. 

Willis  was  a  very  diflerent,  and  a  very  much  nobler  per 


STILL  LIFE.  21) 

eon  ;  the  most  perfect  specimen  which  I  ever  have  met  (foi 
I  knew  him  well,  and  loved  him)  of  that  type  of  Britisli 
sailor  which  good  Captain  Marryatt  has  painted  in  his  Mas- 
ternian  Ready,  and  painted  far  better  than  I  can,  even  thoug-h 
I  do  so  from  life.  A  tall  and  graceful  old  man,  though 
stooping  much  from  lumbago  and  old  wounds  ;  with  snow- 
white  hair  and  whiskers,  delicate  aqniline  features,  the 
manners  of  a  nobleman,  and  the  heart  of  a  child.  All  chil- 
dren knew  that  latter  fact,  and  clung  to  him  instinctively. 
Even  "The  Boys,"  —  that  terrible  Berserk-tribe,  self-organ- 
ized, self-dependent,  and  bound  together  in  common  iniqui- 
ties and  the  dread  of  common  retribution,  who  were  in 
Aberalva,  as  all  fishing  towns,  the  torment  and  terror  of  all 
douce  old  fogies,  male  and  female,  —  even  the  Boys,  I  say, 
respected  Captain  Willis,  so  potent  was  the  influence  of  his 
gentleness  ;  nailed  not  up  his  shutters,  nor  tied  fishing-lines 
across  his  doorway  ;  tail-piped  not  his  dog,  nor  sent  his  cat 
to  sea  on  a  barrel-stave  ;  put  not  live  crabs  into  his  pocket, 
nor  dead  dog-fish  into  his  well  ;  yea,  even  when  judgment, 
too  long  provoked,  made  bare  her  red  right  hand,  and  the 
lieutenant  vowed  by  his  commission  that  he  would  send 
halfa-dozen  of  them  to  the  treadmill,  they  would  send  np  a 
deputation  to  "  beg  Captain  Willis  to  beg  the  schoolmistress 
to  beg  them  off."  For  between  Willis  and  that  fair  young 
creature  a  friendship  had  grown  up,  easily  to  be  understood 
Willis  was  one  of  those  rare  natures  upon  whose  purity  no 
mire  can  cling  ;  who  pass  through  the  furnace,  and  yet  not 
even  the  smell  of  fire  has  passed  upon  them.  Bred,  almost 
born,  on  board  a  smuggling  cutter,  in  the  old  war-times  ; 
then  hunting,  in  the  old  coast-blockade  service,  the  smug- 
glers among  Avhom  he  had  been  trained  ;  watching  the  slow 
horrors  of  the  Walcheren  ;  fighting  under  Collingwood  and 
Nelson,  and  many  another  valiant  captain  ;  lounging  away 
years  of  temptation  on  the  West  Indian  station,  as  sailing- 
master  of  a  ship-of-the-line  ;  pensioned  comfortably  now  for 
many  a  year  in  his  native  town,  —  he  had  been  always  the 
same  gentle,  valiant,  righteous  man  ;  sober  in  life,  strict  in 
duty,  and  simple  in  word  ;  a  soul  as  transparent  as  crystal, 
and  as  pure.  He  was  the  oracle  of  Aberalva  now  ;  and 
even  Lieutenant  Brown  would  ask  his  opinion,  —  non-com- 
missioned officer  though  he  was,  —  in  a  tone  which  was  all 
the  more  patronizing  because  he  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  the 
old  man. 

But  why,  when  the  boys  wanted  to  be  begged  oflF,  was  the 
schoolmistress  to  be  their  advocate  ?     Because  Grace  liar- 
3* 


30  STILL    LIFE. 

vey  exercised,  without  intending  anylliing  of  the  kind,  ac 
ahnost  inesmeric  influence  on  every  one  in  the  little  town 
(Joodness  rather  than  talent  had  given  her  a  wisdom,  and 
g-oodness  rather  than  courage  a  power  of  using  that  wis- 
dom, which,  to  those  simple,  superstitious  folk,  seemed  alto- 
gether an  inspiration.  There  was  a  mystery  about  her,  too, 
which  worked  strongly  on  the  hearts  of  the  West-country 
people.  She  was  supposed  to  be  at  times  "  not  right ;  " 
and  wandering  intellect  is  with  them,  as  with  many  primi- 
tive peoples,  an  object  more  of  awe  than  of  pity.  Her  deep 
melancholy  alternated  with  bursts  of  wild  eloquence,  with 
fantastic  lables,  with  entreaties  and  warnings  against  sin, 
full  of  such  pity  and  pathos  that  they  melted,  at  times,  the 
hardest  hearts.  A  whole  world  of  strange  tales,  half  false, 
half  true,  had  grown  up  round  her  as  she  grew.  She  was 
believed  to  spend  whole  nights  in  prayer  ;  to  speak  with 
visitors  from  the  other  world  ;  even  to  have  the  power  of 
seeing  into  futurity.  The  intensity  of  her  imagination  gave 
rise  to  the  belief  that  she  had  only  to  will,  and  she  could 
see  whom  she  would,  and  all  that  they  were  doing,  even 
across  the  seas  ;  her  exquisite  sensibility,  it  was  whispered, 
made  her  feel  every  bodily  suffering  she  witnessed,  as  acute- 
ly as  the  sufferer's  self,  and  in  the  very  limb  in  which  he 
suffered.  Iler  deep  melancholy  was  believed  to  be  caused 
by  some  dark  fi,te  —  by  some  agonizing  sympathy  witl 
evil-doers  ;  and  it  was  sometimes  said  in  Aberalva,  "Don' 
do  that,  for  poor  Grace's  sake.  She  bears  the  sins  of  all  th( 
parish." 

So  it  befell  that  Grace  Harvey  governed,  she  knew  not 
how  or  why,  all  hearts  in  that  wild,  simple  fishing-town. 
Roiigli  men,  fighting  on  the  qua_y,  shook  hands  at  Grace's 
bidding.  W^'ives,  who  could  not  lure  their  husbands  from 
the  beer-shop,  sent  Grace  in  to  fetch  them  home,  sobered 
by  shame  ;  and  woe  to  the  stranger  who  fancied  that  her 
entrance  into  tliat  noisy  don  gave  him  a  right  to  say  a  rough 
word  to  the  fair  girl  1  The  maidens,  instead  of  envying  her 
beauty,  made  her  the  confidant  of  all  their  loves  ;  for,  though 
many  a  man  would  gladly  have  married  her,  to  woo  her  was 
more  than  any  dared  ;  and  Gentleman  Jan  himself,  the  riglit- 
i'ul  bully  of  the  quay,  as  being  the  handsomest  and  biggest 
man  for  many  a  mile,  beside  owning  a  tidy  trawler  and  two 
good  mackerel-boats,  had  said  openly,  that  if  any  man  ha(^ 
a  right  to  her,  he  supposed  he  had  ;  but  that  he  should  Hit 
Boon  think  of  asking  her  to  marry  him.  as  of  asking  the 
moon. 


STILL   LIFE.  31 

But  it  was  in  the  school,  in  the  duty  which  lay  nearest 
to  her,  that  Grace's  inward  loveliness  shone  most  lovely. 
Whatever  dark  cloud  of  nudanchoh'  lay  upon  her  own  heart, 
she  took  care  that  it  should  never  oversluidow  one  of  those 
young  innocents,  whom  she  taught  by  love  and  ruled  by 
love,  always  tender,  always  cheerful,  even  gay  and  playful  ; 
punishing,  when  she  rarely  punished,  with  tears  and  kisses. 
To  make  them  as  happy  as  she  could  in  a  world  where  there 
was  nothing  but  temptation,  and  disappointment,  and  mis- 
ery ;  to  make  them  "fit  for  heaven,"  and  then  to  pray  that 
they  might  go  thither  as  speedily  as  possible  ;  this  had  been 
her  work  fur  now  seven  years  ;  and  that  Manicheism  which 
has  driven  darker  and  harder  natures  to  destroy  young  chil- 
dren, that  they  might  go  straight  to  bliss,  took  in  her  the 
form  of  outpourings  of  gratitude  (when  the  first  natural  tears 
were  dried),  as  often  as  one  of  her  little  Iambs  was  "  deliv- 
ered out  of  the  miseries  of  this  sinful  world."  But  as  long 
as  they  were  in  the  world  she  was  their  guardian  angel  ; 
and  there  was  hardly  a  mother  in  Aberalva  who  did  not 
confess  her  debt  to  Grace,  not  merely  for  her  children's 
scholarship,  but  for  their  characters. 

Frank  Headley  the  curate,  therefore,  had  touched  alto- 
gether the  wrong  chord  when  he  spoke  of  displacing  Grace. 
And  when,  that  same  afternoon,  he  sauntered  down  to  the 
pier-head,  wearied  with  his  parish  work,  not  only  did  Tar- 
drew  stump  away  in  silence  as  soon  as  he  appeared,  but 
Captain  Willis's  face  assumed  a  grave  and  severe  look,  which 
was  not  often  to  be  seen  on  it. 

"Well,  Captain  Willis?"  said  Frank,  solitary  and  sad; 
longing  for  a  talk  with  some  one,  and  not  quite  sure  whether 
he  was  welcome. 

"  Well,  sir?"  and  the  old  man  lifted  his  hat,  and  made 
one  of  his  princely  bows.  "  You  looked  tired,  sir  ;  I  am 
afraid  you  're  doing  too  much." 

"  I  shall  have  more  to  do,  soon,"  said  the  curate,  his  eye 
glancing  toward  the  schoolmistress,  who,  disturbed  by  the 
noise  above,  was  walking  slowly  up  the  beach,  with  a  child 
holding  to  every  finger,  and  every  fold  of  her  dress. 

Willis  saw  the  direction  of  his  eye,  and  came  at  once  to 
the  point,  in  his  gentle,  straightforward  fashion. 

"  I  hear  you  have  thoughts  of  taking  the  school  from  her, 
sir  ?  " 

"  Why  —  indeed  —  I  shall  be  very  sorry  ;  but  if  she  will 
persist  in  going  to  the  chapel,  I  cannot  overlook  the  sin  of 
schism  " 


32  STILL    LIFE. 

"She  tak«s  the  children  to  church  twice  a  Sunday,  don't 
she  ?     And  teaches  them  all  that  you  tell  her  —  " 

"  Why,  yes  !  I  have  taken  the  religious  instruction  almost 
into  my  own  hands  now."  • 

Willis  smiled  quietly. 

"  You  '11  excuse  an  old  sailor,  sir ;  but  I  think  that  'a 
more  than  mortal  man  can  do.  There  's  no  hour  of  the 
day  but  wliat  she  's  teaching  them  something.  She  's 
telling  them  Bible  stories  now,  1  '11  warrant,  if  you  could 
hear  her." 

Frank  made  no  answer. 

"  You  would  n't  stop  her  doing  that  ?  0,  sir  !  "  and  the 
old  man  spoke  with  a  quiet  earnestness  which  was  not 
without  its  effect,  "just  look  at  her  now,  like  the  Good 
Shepherd  with  his  lambs  about  his  feet,  and  think  whether 
that 's  not  much  too  pretty  a  sight  to  put  an  end  to,  in  a 
poor  sinful  world  like  this." 

"  It  is  my  duty,"  said  Frank,  hardening  himself.  "  It 
pains  me  exceedingly,  Willis ;  —  I  hope  I  need  not  tell  you 
that."  "^ 

"  If  I  know  aught  of  Mr.  Headley's  heart  by  his  ways, 
you  need  n't  indeed,  sir." 

"  But  I  cannot  allow  it.  Her  mother  a  class-leader 
among  these  dissentei-^,  and  one  of  the  most  active  of  them, 
too.  The  school  next  door  to  her  house.  The  preacher, 
of  course,  has  influence  there,  and  must  have.  How  am  I 
to  instil  church  principles  into  them,  if  he  is  counteracting 
me  the  moment  my  back  is  turned  ?  I  have  made  up  my 
mind,  Willis,  to  do  nothing  in  a  hurry.  Lady-day  is  past, 
and  she  must  go  on  till  Midsummer ;  then  1  shall  take  the 
school  into  my  own  hands,  and  teach  them  myself,  for  I  can 
pay  no  mistress  or  master;  and  Mr.  St.  Just —  " 

Frank  checked  himself  as  he  was  going  to  speak  the 
truth  ;  namely,  that  his  sleepy  old  absentee  rector,  Lord 
Scoutbush's  uncle,  would  yawn  and  grumble  at  the  move, 
and,  wondering  why  Frank  "  had  not  the  sense  to  leave  ill 
alone,"  would  give  him  no  manner  of  assistance  beyond  his 
pittance  of  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  five  pounds  at  Christ- 
mas to  spend  on  the  poor. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  don't  doubt  that  you  '11  do  your  best 
in  teaching,  as  you  always  do  ;  but  1  tell  you  honestly, 
you  '11  get  no  children  to  teach." 
"  No  children  ?  " 

"  Their  mothers  know  the  worth  of  Grace  too  well,  and 
the  children  too,  sir  ;  and  they  '11  go  to  her  all  the  same,  d'j 


STILL    LIFE.  3? 

what  you  will ;  and  never  a  one  of  them  will  enter  the 
church  door  from  that  day  forth," 

"  On  their  own  heads  be  it !  "  said  Frank,  a  little  testilj^ ; 
"  but  I  should  not  have  fancied  Miss  Harvey  the  sort  of 
person  to  set  up  herself  in  defiance  of  me." 

"  The  more  reason,  sir,  if  you'll  forgive  me,  for  your  not 
putting  upon  her." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  put  upon  her,  or  any  one.  I  will  do 
everything.  I  will  —  1  do  —  work  day  and  night  for  these 
people,  Mr.  Willis.  I  tell  you,  as  I  would  my  own  father. 
I  don't  think  I  have  another  object  on  earth  —  if  I  have,  I 
hope  I  shall  forget  it — than  the  parish  ;  but  Church  princi- 
ples I  must  carry  out." 

"  Well,  sir,  cei'tainly  no  man  ever  worked  here  as  you  do. 
If  all  had  been  like  you,  sir,  there  would  not  be  a  Dissenter 
here  now  ;  but  excuse  me,  sir,  the  Church  is  a  very  good 
thing,  and  I  keep  to  mine,  having  served  under  her  majesty, 
and  her  majesty's  forefathers,  and  learnt  to  obey  orders,  I 
hope  ;  but  don't  you  think,  sir,  you  're  taking  it  as  the 
Pharisees  took  the  Sabbath-day  ?  " 

"  How  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  as  if  man  was  made  for  the  Church,  and  not  the 
Church  for  man." 

"That  is  a  shrewd  thought,  at  least.  Where  did  you 
pick  it  up  ?  " 

" 'T  is  none  of  my  own,  sir;  a  bit  of  wisdom  that  my 
maid  let  fall  ;  and  it  has  stuck  to  me  strangely  ever  since." 

"  Your  maid  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Grace,  there.  I  always  call  her  my  maid  ;  having 
no  father,  poor  thing,  she  looks  up  to  me  as  one,  pretty 
much, — the  dear  soul.  0,  sir,  I  hope  you'll  think  over 
this  again,  before  you  do  anything.  It 's  done  in  a  day  ; 
but  years  won't  undo  it  again." 

So  Gi'ace's  sayings  were  quoted  against  him.  Her  power 
was  formidable  enough,  if  she  dare  use  it.  He  was  silent 
a  while,  and  then  — 

"  Do  you  think  she  has  heard  of  this  —  of  my  —  " 

"  Honesty's  the  best  policy,  sir  ;  she  has  ;  and  that 's  tlie 
truth.     You  know  how  things  get  round." 

"  Well ;  and  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  her  very  words,  sir  ;  and  they  were  these, 
if  you  '11  excuse  me.  '  l?oor  dear  gentleman,'  says  she,  '  if 
he  thinks  chapel-going  so  wrong,  why  does  he  dare  drive 
folks  to  chapel  ?     I  wonder,  every  time  he  looks  at  tha< 


34  STILL   LIFE. 

deep  sea,  he  don't  remember  what  the  Lord  eaid  about  it, 
and  tliose  who  cause  his  little  ones  to  oflend  ! '  " 

Frank  was  suiiiewhat  awod.  Tiie  tli()iiy,lit  was  new;  the 
application  of  the  text,  as  his  own  scholarship  taught  him, 
even  more  exact  than  Grace  had  fancied. 

"  Then  she  was  not  angry  ?  " 

"  She,  sir  !  You  could  n't  anger  her  if  you  tore  her  in 
pieces  with  hot  pincers,  as  they  did  those  old  martyrs  she  's 
always  telling  about." 

"  (jrood-by,  Willis,"  said  Frank,  in  a  hopeless  tone  >)l 
voice,  and  sauntered  to  the  pier-end,  down  the  steps,  and 
along  the  lower  piei*-way,  burdened  with  many  thoughts. 
lie  came  up  to  the  knot  of  chatting  sailors.  Not  one  of 
them  touched  his  cap,  or  moved  out  of  the  way  for  him. 
The  boat  lay  almost  across  the  whole  pier-way  ;  and  he 
stopped,  awkwardly  enough,  for  there  was  not  room  t. 
get  by. 

"  VVill  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  pass?"  asked  he, 
meekly  enough.     But  no  one  stirred. 

"  VVhy  don't  you  get  up,  Tom  ?  "  asked  one. 

"  1  be  lame." 

"  So  be  I." 

"  The  gentleman  can  step  over  me,  if  he  likes,"  said  big 
Jan  ;  a  proposition  the  impossibility  whereof  raised  a  horse- 
laugh. 

"  An't  you  ashamed  of  yourselves,  lads  ? "  said  the  severe 
voice  of  Willis,  from  above.  The  men  rose  sulkily ;  and 
Frank  hastened  on,  as  ready  to  cry  as  ever  he  had  been  in 
his  life.  Poor  fellow!  he  had  been  laboring  among  these 
people  for  now  twelve  months,  as  no  man  had  ever  labored 
before,  and  he  felt  that  ho  had  not  won  the  confidence  of  a 
single  human  being,  —  not  even  of  the  old  women,  who 
took  his  teaching  for  the  sake  of  his  charity,  and  who 
scented  popery,  all  the  while,  in  words  in  which  there  was  no 
jjopery,  antl  in  doctrines  which  were  just  the  same,  on  the 
whole,  as  those  of  the  dissenting  preacher,  simply  because 
he  would  sprinkle  among  them  certain  words  and  phrases 
which  had  become  "  suspect,"  as  party  badges.  His  church 
was  all  but  empty  ;  the  general  excuse  was  that  it  was  a 
mile  from  the  town  ;  but  Frardc  knew  that  that  was  not  the 
true  reason  ;  that  all  the  parish  had  got  it  into  their  heads 
that  he  had  a  leaning  to  popery  ;  that  he  was  going  over  to 
Rome  ;  that  he  was  probably  a  Jesuit  in  disguise. 

Now,  be  it  always  remembered,  Frank  Ileadley  was  a 
fjood  man,  in  every  sense  of  the  word.     He  had  nothing, 


STILL   LIFE.  36 

B  ive  tlie  outside,  in  common  with  those  undesirable  cox- 
combs, who  have  not  been  bred  by  the  High  Church  move- 
ment, but  have  taken  refuge  in  its  cracks,  as  they  would 
iiave  done  forty  years  ago  in  those  of  tlie  Evangelical,  — 
youths  who  hide  their  crass  ignorance  and  dulness  under 
the  cloak  of  Church  infallibility,  and,  having  neither  wit, 
manners,  learning,  humanity,  or  an}^  other  dignit}^  whereon 
to  stand,  talk  loud,  powr  pis  aller,  about  the  dignity  of  the 
priesthood.  Such  men  Frank  had  met  at  neighboring  cleri- 
cal meetings,  overbearing  and  out-talking  the  elder  and  the 
wiser  members  ;  and,  finding  that  he  got  no  good  from  them, 
had  withdrawn  into  his  parish-work,  to  eat  his  own  heart, 
like  Bellerophon  of  old.  For  Frank  was  a  gentleman,  and 
a  Christian,  if  ever  one  there  was.  Delicate  in  person,  all 
but  consumptiv'e  ;  graceful  and  refined  in  all  his  works  and 
ways  ;  a  scholar,  elegant  rather  than  deep,  yet  a  scholar 
still ;  full  of  all  love  for  painting,  architecture,  and  poetry, 
he  had  come  down  to  bury  himself  in  this  remote  curacy,  in 
the  honest  desire  of  doing  good.  He  had  been  a  curate  in 
a  fashionable  London  church  ;  but,  finding  the  atmosphere 
tliereof  not  over  wholesome  to  his  soul,  he  had  had  the 
courage  to  throw  oft'  St.  Nepomuc's,  its  brothei'hoods,  sister- 
hoods, and  all  its  gorgeous  and  highly-organized  appliances 
for  enabling  five  thousand  rich  to  take  tolerable  care  of  five 
hundred  poor;  and  had  fled  from  "the  holy  virgins"  (as 
certain  old  ladies,  who  do  twice  their  work  with  half  their 
noise,  call  them),  into  the  wilderness  of  Bethnal  Green. 
But  six  months'  gallant  work  there,  with  gallant  men  (for 
there  are  High  Churchmen  there  who  are  an  honor  to  Eng- 
land), brought  him  to  death's  door.  The  doctors  com- 
manded some  soft  western  air.  Frank,  as  chivalrous  as  a 
kniglit-errant  of  old,  would  fain  have  died  at  his  post,  but  his 
mother  interfered  ;  and  he  could  do  no  less  than  obey  her. 
So  he  had  taken  this  remote  West-country  curacy  ;  all  the 
more  willingly  because  he  knew  that  nine  tenths  of  the  peo- 
ple were  Dissenters.  To  recover  that  place  to  the  Church 
would  be  something  worth  living  for.  So  he  had  come,  aiid 
labored  late  and  early  ;  and,  behold,  he  had  failed  utterly  ; 
and  seemed  further  than  ever  from  success.  He  had  opened, 
too  hastily,  a  crusade  against  the  Dissenters,  and  denounced 
where  he  should  have  conciliated.  He  had  overlooked  — 
indeed  he  haixUy  knew  —  the  sad  truth,  that  the  mere  fact 
of  his  being  a  clergyman  was  no  passport  to  the  hearts  of 
his  people.  For  the  curate  who  preceded  him  had  been 
'in  old   man,    mean,   ignorant,    incapable,    remaining  there 


36  STILL   LIFE. 

simply  because  nobody  else  would  have  him,  and  given  tc 
bran dy-and- water  as  much  as  his  flock.  The  rector,  for  the 
last  fifteen  years,  Lord  Scoutbusli's  uncle,  was  a  eiplier 
The  rector  before  him  had  notoriously  earned  the  liviiig  by 
a  marriage  with  a  lady  who  stood  in  some  questionabh;  rela- 
tion to  Lord  Scoutbush's  father,  and  who  had  never  had  a 
thought  above  his  dinner  and  his  tithes  ;  and  all  that  the 
Aberalva  lishermen  knew  of  God  or  righteousness,  they  had 
learnt  from  the  soi-disanl  disciples  of  Jolm  Wesley.  So 
Frank  ITeadley  had  to  make  up,  at  starting,  the  arrears  of 
halt'a  century  of  base  neglect ;  but,  instead  of  doing  so,  he 
had  contrived  to  awaken  against  himself  that  dogged  hatred 
of  popery  which  lies  inarticulate  and  confused,  but  deep  and 
firm,  in  the  heart  of  the  English  people.  Poor  fellow!  if  he 
made  a  mistake,  ho  sulfered  for  it.  There  was  hardly  t: 
sadder  soul  than  poor  Frank,  as  he  went  listlessly  up  the 
village  street,  that  afternoon,  to  his  lodgings  at  Captain 
Willis's,  which  he  had  taken  because  he  preferred  living  in 
the  village  itself  to  occupying  the  comfortable  rectory  a 
mile  out  of  town. 

However,  we  cannot  set  him  straight  —  after  all,  every 
man  must  perform  that  office  for  himself  So  the  best  thing 
we  can  do,  as  we  landed,  naturally,  at  the  pier-head,  is  to 
walk  up  street  after  him,  and  see  what  sort  of  a  place  Aber- 
alva is. 

Beneath  us,  to  the  left  hand,  is  the  quay-pool,  now  lying 
dry,  in  which  a  dozen  trawlers  are  lopping  over  on  their 
sides,  their  red  sails  drying  in  the  sun,  the  tails  of  the 
trawls  hauled  up  to  the  topmast  heads  ;  while  the  more 
handy  of  their  owners  are  getting  on  board  by  ladders,  to 
pack  away  the  said  red  sails  ;  for  it  will  blow  to-night.  In  the 
long  furrows  which  their  keels  have  left,  and  in  the  shallow 
muddy  pools,  lie  innumerable  fragments  of  exenterated 
maids  (not  human  ones,  pitiful  reader,  but  belonging  to  the 
order  Pisces,  and  the  family  Raia),  and  some  twenty  non- 
exenterated  ray-dogs  and  picked  dogs  (Anglice,  dog-fish), 
together  with  a  fine  basking  shark,  at  least  nine  feet  long, 
out  of  which  the  kneeling  Mr.  George  Thomas,  clothed  in 
pilot-cloth  patches  of  every  hue,  bright  scarlet,  blue,  and 
brown  (not  to  mention  a  large  square  of  white  canvas  which 
has  been  let  into  that  part  of  his  trousers  which  is  now  up- 
permost), is  dissecting  the  liver  for  the  purpose  of  greasing 
his  "  sheaves  "  with  the  fragrant  oil  thereof  The  pools  in 
general  are  bedded  with  black  mud,  and  creamed  over  with 
oily  flakes,  which  may  proceed  from  the  tar  on  the  vessels 


STILL    LIFE.  H7 

sides,  and  may  also  from  "decomposing  animal  matter,"  as 
we  euphemizo  it  nowa-days.  The  hot  pebbles,  at  higli- 
tide  mark,  —  crowned  with  a  long  black  row  of  herring  and 
mackerel  boats,  laid  up  in  ordinary  for  the  present,  —  are 
bca.itifully  variegated  with  mackerels'  heads,  gurnets'  fins, 
old  hag,  lob-worm,  and  mussel-baits,  and  the  inwards  of  a 
whole  ichthyological  museum  ;  save  at  one  spot  where  the 
Cloaca  maxima  and  Port  Esquiline  of  Aberalva  town  (small 
enough,  considering  the  place  holds  fifteen  hundred  souls) 
murmurs  from  beneath  a  gray  stone  arch  toward  the  sea, 
not  unfraxxght  with  dead  rats  and  cats,  who,  their  ancient 
feud  forgotten,  combine  lovingly  at  last  in  inci-easing  the 
healtlx  of  the  blue-ti'ousered  ui'chins  who  are  sailing  xipou 
that  Acherontic  stream  bits  of  board  with  a  feather  stuck  in 
it,  or  of  their  tinj''  sisters,  who  are  dancing  about  in  the 
dirtiest  pool  among  the  ti-awlers  in  a  way  which  (if  your 
respectaljle  black  coat  be  seen  upon  the  pier)  will  elicit 
from  one  of  the  balconied  windows  above,  decked  with 
reeking  shirts  and  linen,  some  sxxch  shriek  as  — 

"Patience  Penberthy,  Patience  Penberthy — a!  You 
nasty,  dirty,  little  ondecent  lixxssy  — !  What  be  playing 
in  the  quay-pool  for  —  a!  A  pulling  up  your  pesticoats 
befox-e  the  quality  —  a  !  "  Each  exclamation  being  followed 
with  that  droning  grunt,  with  which  the  West-country  folk, 
after  having  screamed  their  lungs  empty  through  their 
noses,  recover  their  breath  for  a  fresh  burst. 

Never  mind  ;  it  is  no  nosegay,  certainly,  as  a  whole  ;  bxxt 
did  you  ever  see  stux'dier,  rosier,  noblei'-looking  children, — 
x'ounder  faces,  raven  hair,  bx'ight  gray  eyes,  full  of  fun  and 
tenderness  ?  As  for  the  dirt,  that  cannot  harm  them  ;  poor 
people's  childi'en  must  be  dirty  —  why  ixot  ?  Look  on  fifty 
yards  to  the  left.  Between  two  ridges  of  high  pebble  bank, 
some  twenty  yards  apai't,  comes  Alva  river  rushing  to  the 
sea.  On  the  opposite  ridge,  a  low  white  house,  with  three 
or  four  white  canvas-covered  boats,  axid  a  flagstaff'  with 
sloping  cross-yai'd,  betokens  the  coast-guard  station.  Be- 
yond it  rise  lalack  jagged  cliffs  ;  mile  after  mile  of  iron- 
bound  wall  ;  and  here  and  there,  at  the  glens'  mouths, 
great  banks  and  denes  of  shifting  sand.  In  front  of  it. 
upon  the  beach,  are  half-a-dozen  great  green  and  gray 
heaps  of  Welsh  limestone  ;  behind  it,  at  the  cliff"  foot,  is 
the  limekiln,  with  its  white  dusty  heaps,  and  brown  dusty 
men,  its  quivering  mirage  of  hot  air,  its  strings  of  patient 
hay-nibbling  donkeys,  which  look  as  if  they  had  just  awak 
ened  out  of  a  flour  bin.  Above,  a  green  down  stretches 
4 


38  STILL    LIFE. 

up  to  bright  yellow  furze-crofts  far  aloft.  Behind,  a  roed;^ 
marsh,  covered  with  red  cattle,  paves  the  valley  till  it  closes 
in  ;  the  steep  sides  of  tlie  hills  are  clotlied  in  oak  and  ash 
covert,  in  which,  three  months  ago,  you  could  have  shot 
more  cocks  in  one  day  than  you  would  in  Berkshire  in  a 
year.  Pleasant  little  g-linipses  there  are,  too,  of  g-ray  stone 
farm-houses,  nestling  among  sycamore  and  beecli ;  bright 
green  meadows,  alder-tiinged  ;  squares  of  rich  red  faHow 
Held,  parted  by  lines  of  golden  furze  ;  all  cut  out  with  a 
peculiar  blackness  and  clearness,  soft  and  tender  withal, 
which  betokens  a  climate  surcharged  with  rain.  Only,  in 
the  very  bosom  of  the  valley,  a  soft  mist- hangs,  increasing 
the  sense  of  distance,  and  softening  back  one  hill  and  woo(l 
behind  another,  till  the  great  brown  moor  which  backs  it  all 
seems  to  rise  out  of  the  empty  air.  For  a  thousand  feet  it 
ranges  up,  in  huge  sheets  of  brown  heather,  and  gray  cairns 
and  screes  of  granite,  all  sharp  and  black-edged  against  the 
pale-blue  sky  ;  and  all  suddenly'  cut  oif  above  by  one  long, 
horizontal  line  of  dark  gray  cloud,  which  seems  to  hang 
there  motionless,  and  j'et  is  growing  to  windward,  and  dy- 
ing to  leeward,  forever  rushing  out  of  the  invisible  into  sight, 
and  into  the  invisible  again,  at  railroad  speed.  Out  of 
nothing  the  moor  rises,  and  into  nothing  it  ascends,  —  a 
great  dark  phantom  between  earth  and  sky,  boding  rain  and 
howling  tempest,  and,  perhaps,  fearful  wreck  —  for  the 
ground-swell  moans  and  thunders  on  the  beach  behind  us, 
louder  and  louder  every  moment. 

Let  us  go  on,  and  up  the  street,  after  we  have  scrambled 
through  the  usual  labyrinth  of  timber-baulks,  rusty  anchors, 
boats  which  have  been  dragged,  for  the  purpose  of  mending 
and  tarring,  into  the  very  middle  of  the  road,  and  old  spars 
stowed  under  walls,  in  the  vain  hope  that  they  may  be  of 
some  use  for  something  some  day  ;  and.  have  stood  the 
stares  and  welcomes  of  the  lazy  giants  who  are  sitting 
about  upon  them,  black-lockcul,  black-bearded,  with  ruddy, 
wholesome  faces,  and  eyes  as  bright  as  diamonds  ;  men  who 
are  on  their  own  ground,  and  know  it ;  who  will  not  touch 
their  caps  to  you,  or  pull  the  short,  black  pipe  from  between 
their  lips  as  you  pass  ;  but  expect  you  to  prove  3'ourself  a 
gentleman,  by  speaking  respectfully  to  them  ;  which,  if  you 
do,  you  will  find  them  as  hearty,  intc^liigent,  brave  fellows 
as  ever  walked  this  (sarth,  capable  of  anything,  from  work- 
ing the  naval-brigade  guns  at  Sevastopol,  down  to  running 
up  to  *  *  *  a  Hundred  miles  in  a  cockleshell  lugger,  to  fore- 
stall the  early  mackerel  market.    God  be  with  you,  my  brave 


STILL   LIFE.  39 

l-ads,  and  -vsrith  your  children  after  you ;  for  as  long  as  j-ou 
are  what  I  have  known  you,  old  England  will  rule  the  seas, 
and  many  a  land  beside  ! 

But  in  going-  up  Aberalva-street,  you  remark  several 
things  :  first,  that  the  houses  were  all  whitewashed  yester- 
day, except  where  the  snowy  white  is  picked  out  by  but- 
tresses of  pink  and  blue  ;  next,  that  they  all  have  bright 
green  palings  in  front,  and  bright  green  window-sills  and 
frames  ;  next,  that  they  are  all  roofed  with  shining  gray 
slate,  and  the  space  between  the  window  and  the  pales 
flagged  with  the  same ;  next,  that  where  such  space  is  not 
flagged,  it  is  full  of  flowers  and  shrubs  which  stand  the  win- 
ter only  in  our  green-houses.  The  fuchsias  are  ten  feet 
high,  laden  with  ripe  purple  berries  running  over  (for  there 
are  no  birds  to  pick  them  off) ;  and  there,  in  the  front  of  the 
coast-guard  lieutenant's  house,  is  Cobaea  scandens,  covered 
with  purple  claret-glasses,  as  it  has  been  ever  since  Christ- 
mas ;  for  Aberalva  knows  no  winter ;  and  there  are  grown- 
up men  in  it  who  never  put  on  a  skate,  or  made  a  snow-ball, 
in  their  lives.  A  most  cleanly,  bright-colored,  foreign 
looking  street,  is  that  long  straggling  one  which  runs  up 
the  hill  towards  Penalva  Court ;  only  remark,  that  this 
cleanliness  is  gained  by  making  the  gutter  in  the  middle 
street  the  common  sewer  of  the  town,  and  tread  clear  of 
cabbage-leaves,  pilchard  bones,  et  id  genus  omne.  For  Abe- 
ralva is  like  Paris  (if  the  answer  of  a  celebrated  sanitary 
reformer  to  the  emperor  be  truly  reported),  "fair  without, 
but  fold  within 


}i 


However,  the  wind  is  blowing  dull  and  hollow  from  south- 
west ;  the  clouds  are  rolling  faster  and  faster  up  from  the 
Atlantic  ;  the  sky  to  westward  is  brassy  green  ;  the  glass 
is  ialling  fast ;  and  there  Avill  be  wind  and  rain  enough  to- 
night to  sweep  even  Aberalva  clean  for  the  next  week. 

Grace  Harvey  sees  the  coming  storm,  as  she  goes  slowly 
homeward,  dismissing  her  little  flock  ;  and  she  lingers  long 
and  sadl}'  outside  her  cottage  door,  looking  out  over  the 
fast  blackening  sea,  and  listening  to  the  hollow  thunder  of 
the  grcjund-swell,  against  the  back  of  the  point  which  shel- 
ters Aberalva  Cove. 

Far  away  on  the  horizon,  the  masts  of  stately  ships  stand 
out  against  the  sky,  driving  fast  to  the  eastward  with  short- 
ened sail.  They,  too,  know  what  is  coming;  and  Grace 
prays  for  them  as  she  stands,  in  her  wild  way,  with  half 
outspoken  words. 

"  All  those  gallant  ships,  dear  Loid  !  and  so  many  beauti 


40  STILL    LIFE. 

fill  men  in  them,  and  so  few  of  them  ready  to  die ;  and  all 
those  gallant  soldiers  going  to  the  war  ;  —  Lord,  wilt  thou 
not  have  mercy?  Spare  them  for  a  little  time,  before — . 
Is  not  that  cruel,  man-devouring  sea  full  enough.  Lord  ;  and 
brave  men's  bones  enough,  strewn  up  and  down  all  rocks 
and  sands  ?  And  is  not  that  dark  place  full  enough,  0  Lord^ 
of  poor  souls  cut  off  in  a  moment,  as  my  two  were  ?  0, 
not  to-night,  dear  Lord  !  Do  not  call  any  one  to-night  — 
give  them  a  day  more,  one  chance  more,  poor  fellows  — 
they  have  had  so  few,  and  so  many  temptations,  and,  per 
haps,  no  schooling.  They  go  to  sea  so  early,  and  young 
things  will  be  young  things,  Lord.  Spare  them  but  one 
night  more,  —  and  yet  He  did  not  spare  my  two,  —  they  had 
no  time  to  repent,  and  have  no  time  for  ever,  evermore  !  " 

And  she  stands  looking  out  over  the  sea ;  but  she  has 
lost  sight  of  everything,  save  her  own  sad  imaginations. 
Her  eyes  open  wider  and  wider,  as  if  before  some  unseen 
horror  ;  the  eyebrows  contract  upwards  ;  the  cheeks  sharp- 
en ;  the  mouth  parts ;  the  lips  draw  back,  showing  the  white 
teeth,  as  if  in  intensest  agony.  Thus  she  stands  long, 
motionless,  awe-frozen,  save  when  a  shudder  runs  through 
every  limb,  with  such  a  countenance  as  that  "fair  terror" 
of  which  Shelley  sang  — 

♦'  Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divine  ; 
Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seem  to  lie 
Loveliness  like  a  shadow,  from  which  shine. 
Fiery  and  lucid,  struggling  underneath, 
The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death." 


^o^ 


Her  mother  comes  out  from  the  cottage  door  behind,  and 
lays  her  hand  upon  the  girl's  shoulder.  The  spell  is  broken ; 
and,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  Grace  bursts  into  violent 
weeping. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  my  poor  child,  here,  in  the  cold 
night  air  ?  " 

"  My  two,  mother,  my  two  !  "  said  she  ;  "  and  all  the 
poor  souls  at  sea  to-night !  " 

"You  mustn't  think  of  it.  Haven't  I  told  you  not  to 
think  of  it  ?  One  would  lose  one's  wits  if  one  did  too 
often." 

"  If  it  is  all  true,  mother,  what  else  is  there  worth  think- 
ing of  in  heaven  or  earth  ?  " 

And  Grace  goes  in,  with  a  dull,  heavy  look  of  uttor 
exhaustion,  bodily  and  mental,  and  quietly  sets  the  things 


STILL   LIFE.  41 

for  supper,  and  goes  about  her  cottage  work,  as  one  who 
bears  a  heavy  chain,  but  has  borne  it  too  long  to  let  it 
hinder  the  daily  drudgery  of  life. 

Grace  had  reason  to  pray,  at  least,  for  the  soldiers  who 
were  going  to  the  war.  For,  as  she  prajx'd,  the  Orinoco, 
Ripon,  and  Manilla,  were  steaming  down  Southampton 
Water,  with  the  Guards  on  board  ;  and  but  that  morning 
little  Lord  Scoutbush,  left  behind  at  the  depot,  had  bid  fare- 
well to  his  best  friend,  opposite  Buckingham  Palace,  while 
the  bearskins  were  on  the  bayonet-points,  with  — 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  you  have  the  fun,  after  all,  and  I  the 
work  ;  "  and  had  been  answered  with  — 

"  Fun  ?  there  will  be  no  fighting  ;  and  I  shall  only  have 
lost  my  season  in  town." 

Was  there,  then,  no  man  among  them  that  day,  who, 

"  As  the  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll. 
Heard  in  the  wild  March  morning  the  angels  call  his  soul  "  ? 


Verily  they  are  gone  down  to  Hades,  even  many  stalwart 
Bouls  of  heioes, 

4* 


CHAPTER    III, 

ANYTHING    BUT    STILL    LIFE. 

Penalva  Court,  about  half  a  mile  from  tlio  quay,  is  "  like 
a  house  in  a  story  ;  "  — a  house  of  seven  g'ables,  and  those 
very  shaky  ones  ;  a  house  of  useless  long  passag-es,  useless 
turrets,  vast  lumber  attics  where  maids  see  ghosts,  lofty 
garden  and  yard  walls  of  gray  stone,  round  which  the  wind 
and  rain  are  lashing  through  the  dreary  darkness  ;  low  oak- 
ribbed  ceilings  ;  windows  which  once  were  mullioned  with 
stone,  but  now  with  wood  painted  white  ;  walls  which  were 
once  oak-wainscot,  but  have  been  painted  like  the  mullions, 
to  the  disgust  of  Elsley  Vavasour,  poet,  its  occupant  in 
March,  1854,  who  forgot  that,  while  tlie  oak  was  left  dark, 
no  man  could  have  seen  to  read  in  the  rooms  a  3^ard  from 
the  window. 

He  has,  however,  little  reason  to  complain  of  the  one 
drawing-room,  where  he  and  his  wife  are  sitting,  so  pleasant 
has  she  made  it  look,  in  spite  of  the  plainness  of  the  furni- 
ture. A  bright  log-fire  is  burning  on  the  hearth.  Thei*e 
are  a  few  good  books  too,  and  a  few  handsome  prints  ;  while 
Home  really  valuable  knick-knacks  are  set  out,  with  pardon- 
able ostentation,  on  a  little  table  covered  with  crimson  vel- 
vet. It  is  only  cotton  velvet,  if  you  look  close  at  it ;  but 
the  things  are  pretty  enough  to  catch  the  eye  of  all  visitors ; 
and  Mrs.  Ileale,  the  doctor's  wife  (who  always  calls  Mrs. 
Vavasour  "  my  lady,"  though  she  does  not  love  her),  and 
Mrs.  Trebooze  of  Trebooze,  always  finger  them  over  when 
they  have  an  opportunity,  and  whisper  to  each  other,  half 
contemptuously,  "Ah,  poor  thing!  there  's  a  sign  that  she 
has  seen  better  days." 

And  better  days,  in  one  sense,  Mrs.  Vavasour  has  seen. 

I  am  afraid,  indeed,  that  she  has  more  than  once  regretted 

the  morning  when  she  ran  away  in  a  hack-cab  from  her 

brother   Lord   Scoutbush's    house   in   Eaton  Square,  to   be 

married  to  Elsley  Vavasour,  the  gifted  author  of  "  A  Soul's 

Agonies,  and  other  Poems."     He  was  a  lion  then,   with 

foolish  women  running  after  him,  and  turning  his  head  ouce 

a2> 


ANYTHING    BUT   STILL    LIFE.  43 

and  for  all ;  and  Lucia  St.  Just  was  a  wild  Irish  girl,  new  to 
London  society,  all  feeling  and  romance,  and  literally  all  ; 
for  there  was  little  real  intellect  underlying  her  passionate 
sensibility.  So  when  the  sensibility  burnt  itself  out,  as  it 
generally  does  ;  and  when  children,  and  the  weak  health 
which  comes  with  them,  and  the  cares  of  a  household,  and 
money  diflBculties,  were  absorbing  her  little  powers,  Elsley 
Vavasour  began  to  fancy  that  his  wife  was  a  very  common- 
place person,  who  was  fast  losing  even  her  good  looks  and 
her  good  temper.  So,  on  the  whole,  they  were  not  happy. 
Elsley  was  an  affectionate  man,  and  honorable  to  a  fantastic 
nicety  ;  but  he  was  vain,  capricious,  over-sensitive,  craving 
for  admiration  and  distinction  ;  and  it  was  not  enough  for 
him  that  his  wife  loved  him,  bore  him  children,  kept  his 
accounts,  mended  and  moiled  all  day  long  for  him  and  his  ; 
he  wanted  her  to  act  the  public  for  him  exactly  when  he 
was  hungry  for  praise  ;  and  that  not  the  actual,  but  an  alto- 
gether ideal,  public;  to  worship  him  as  a  deity,  "live  for 
him  and  him  alone,"  "realize"  his  poetic  dreams  of  mar- 
riage-bliss, and  talk  sentiment  with  him,  or  listen  to  him 
talking  sentiment  to  her,  when  she  would  much  sooner  be 
safe  in  bed  burying  all  the  petty  cares  of  the  day,  and  the 
pain  in  her  back  too,  poor  thing  !  in  sound  sleep  ;  and  so  it 
befell  that  they  often  quarrelled  and  wrangled,  and  that  they 
were  quarrelling  and  wrangling  this  very  night. 

Who  cares  to  know  how  it  began  ?  Who  cares  to  hear 
how  it  went  on,  —  the  stupid,  aimless  skirmish  of  bitter 
words,  between  two  people  who  had  forgotten  themselves  ? 
I  believe  it  began  with  Elsley's  being  vexed  at  her  spring- 
ing up  two  or  three  times,  fancying  that  she  heard  the 
children  cry,  while  he  wanted  to  be  quiet,  and  senti- 
mentalize over  the  roaring  of  the  wind  outside.  Then  — 
she  thought  of  nothing  but  those  children.  Why  did  she 
not  take  a  book  and  occupy  her  mind  ?  To  which  she  had 
her  pert,  though  just  answer,  about  her  mind  having  quite 
enough  to  do  to  keep  clothes  on  the  children's  backs,  and 
so  forth,  —  let  who  list  imagine  the  miserable  little  squab- 
ble,—  till  she  says  :  "  I  know  what  has  put  you  out  so  to- 
night—  nothing  but  the  news  of  my  sister's  coming."  Ha 
answers,  "  That  her  sister  is  as  little  to  him  as  to  any  man  ; 
as  welcome  to  come  now  as  slie  has  been  to  stay  a^vaj' 
these  three  years." 

"Ah,  it's  very  well  to  say  that ;  but  you  have  been  a 
different  person  ever  since  that  letter  came."  And  so  she 
torments   him   into  an   angry  self-justification   (which  she 


44  ANYTHING   BUT   STILL   LIFE. 

takes  triumphantly  as  a  confession)  that  "it  is  very  disa- 
greeable to  have  his  thoughts  broken  in  on  by  one  who  haa 
no  sympathy  with  him  and  his  pursuits,  and  who — "  and 
at  that  point  he  wisely  stops  short,  for  he  was  going  to 
throw  down  a  very  ugly  gage  of  battle 

Thrown  down  or  not,  Lucia  snatches  at  it. 

"Ah,  I  understand;  poor  Valentia !  you  always  hated 
her." 

"  I  did  not ;  but  she  is  so  brusque,  and  excited,  and  — " 

"  Be  so  kind  as  not  to  abuse  my  family.  You  may  say 
what  you  will  of  me  ;  but — " 

"  And  what  have  your  family  done  for  n^e,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  considering  that  we  are  now  living  rent-free  in 
my  brother's  house,  and — "  She  stops  in  her  turn  ;  for 
her  pride  and  her  prudence  also  will  not  let  her  tell  him 
that  Valentia  has  been  clothing  her  and  the  children  for  the 
last  three  years.  He  is  just  the  man  to  forbid  her  on  the 
spot  to  receive  any  more  presents,  and  to  sacrifice  her  com- 
fort to  his  own  pride.  But  what  she  has  said  is  quite 
enough  to  bring  out  a  very  angry  answer,  which  she  expect- 
ing, nips  in  the  bud  by, 

"For  goodness'  sake,  don't  speak  so  loud;  I  don't 
want  the  servants  to  hear." 

"I  am  not  speaking  loud"  (he  has  not  yet  opened  his 
lips).  "That  is  your  old  trick  to  prevent  my  defending 
myself,  while  you  are  driving  one  mad.  How  dare  you 
taunt  me  with  being  a  pensioner  on  your  brother's  bounty  ? 
I  '11  go  up  to  town  again,  and  take  lodgings  there.  I  need 
not  be  beholden  to  any  aristocrat  of  them  all.  I  have  my 
own  station  in  the  real  world,  the  world  of  intellect ;  I 
dave  my  own  friends;  I  have  made  myself  a  name  without 
his  help  ;  and  I  can  live  without  his  help,  he  shall  find  !  " 

"  Which  name  were  you  speaking  of  i*  "  rejoins  she,  look- 
ing up  at  him,  with  all  her  native  Irish  humor  flashing  up 
for  a  moment  in  her  naughty  eyes.  The  next  minute  she 
would  have  given  her  hand  not  to  have  said  it,  for,  with  a 
very  terrible  word,  Elsley  springs  to  his  feet  and  dashes  out 
of  the  room. 

She  hears  him  catch  \\p  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  hurry  out 
into  the  rain,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.  She  springs 
up  to  call  him  back,  but  he  is  gone,  and  she  dashes  herself  on 
the  floor,  and  bursts  into  an  agony  of  weeping  over  "  young 
bliss  never  to  return  !  "  Not  in  the  least.  Iler  principal 
fear  is  lest  he  should  catch  cold  in  the  rain.  She  takes  up 
ber  work  again,  and  stitches  away  in  the  conilbrtable  car 


ANrTHING    BUT   STILL    LIFE.  45 

tainty  that  in  half  an  hour  she  will  have  recovered  her  tem- 
per, and  he  also  ;  that  they  will  pass  a  sulky  night ;  and 
to-morrow,  by  about  mid-day,  without  explanation  or  formal 
reconciliation,  have  become  as  good  friends  as  ever.  "  Per- 
haps," says  she  to  herself,  with  a  woman's  sense  of  power, 
"  if  he  be  very  much  ashamed  and  very  wet,  I  '11  pity  him 
and  make  friends  to-night." 

Miserable  enough  are  these  little  squabbles.  Why  will 
two  people,  who  have  sworn  to  love  and  cherish  each  other 
utterly,  and  who,  on  the  whole,  do  what  they  have  sworn, 
behave  to  each  other  as  they  dare  for  very  shame  behave 
to  no  one  else  ?  Is  it  that,  as  every  beautiful  thing  has  its 
hideous  antitype,  this  mutual  shamelessness  is  the  devil's 
ape  of  mutual  confidence  ?  Perhaps  it  cannot  be  otherwise 
with  beings  compact  of  good  land  evil.  When  the  veil  of 
reserve  is  withdrawn  from  between  two  souls,  it  must  be 
withdrawn  for  evil,  as  for  good,  till  the  two  natures,  which 
ought  to  seek  rest,  each  in  the  other's  inmost  depths,  may 
at  last  spring  apart,  confronting  each  other  recklessly  with, 
"  There,  you  see  me  as  I  am  ;  you  know  the  worst  of  me, 
and  I  of  3^ou  ;  take  me  as  you  find  me  ;  what  care  I  ?  " 

Elsley  and  Lucia  have  not  yet  arrived  at  that  terrible 
crisis,  though  they  are  on  the  path  toward  it  —  the  path  of 
little  carelessnesses,  rudenesses,  ungoverned  words  and 
tempers,  and,  worst  of  all,  of  that  hall-confidence,  which  is 
certain  to  avenge  itself  by  irritation  and  quarrelling  ;  for  if 
two  married  people  will  not  tell  each  other  in  love  what  they 
ought,  they  will  be  sure  to  tell  each  other  in  anger  what 
they  ought  not.  It  is  plain  enough  already  that  Elsley  has 
his  weak  point,  which  must  not  be  touched,  something 
about  "  a  name,"  which  Lucia  is  to  be  expected  to  ignore, 
—  as  if  anj^thing  which  really  exists  could  be  ignored  while 
two  people  live  together  night  and  day,  for  better  for  worse. 
Till  the  thorn  is  out,  the  wound  will  not  heal ;  and  till  that 
matter  (whatever  it  may  be)  is  set  right,  by  confession  and 
absolution,  there  will  be  no  peace  for  them,  for  they  are 
living  in  a  lie  ;  and,  unless  it  be  a  very  little  one  indeed, 
better,  perhaps,  that  they  should  go  on  to  that  terrible 
crisis  of  open  defiance.  It  may  end  in  disgust,  hatred, 
madness  ;  but  it  may,  too,  end  in  each  falling  again  upon 
the  other's  bosom,  and  sobbing  out  through  holy  tears, 
"  Yes,  you  do  know  the  worst  of  me,  and  yet  you  love  me 
still.  This  is  happiness,  to  find  one's  self  most  loved  when 
one  most  hates  one's  self  I  God,  help  us  to  confess  oui 
sins  to  thee,  as  we  have  done  to  each  other,  and  to  begiu 


46  ANYTHING    BUT   STILL   LIFE. 

life  again  like  little  children,  struggling  Iiand  in  hand  out 
of  this  lowest  pit,  up  the  steep  path  which  leads  to  life,  and 
strength,  and  peace." 

Heaven  grant  that  it  may  so  end !  But  now  Elsley  has 
gone  raging-  out  into  the  raging  darkness,  trying  to  prove 
himself  to  himself  the  most  injured  of  men,  and  to  hate  his 
wife  as  much  as  possible,  though  the  fool  knows  the  whole 
time  that  he  loves  her  better  than  anything  on  earth,  even 
than  that  "  fame,"  on  which  he  tries  to  fatten  his  lean  soul, 
snapping  greedily  at  every  scrap  which  falls  in  his  way,  and, 
in  default,  snapping  at  everybody  and  everything  else.  And 
little  comfort  it  gives  him.  Why  should  it  ?  What  com- 
fort, save  in  being  wise  and  strong  ?  And  is  he  the  wiser 
or  stronger  for  being  told  by  a  reviewer  tliat  he  has  written 
fine  words,  or  has  failed  in  writing  them,  or  to  have  silly 
women  writing  to  ask  for  his  autograph,  or  for  leave  to  set 
his  songs  to  music  ?  Nay,  shocking  as  the  question  may 
seem,  is  he  the  wiser  and  stronger  man  for  being  a  poet  of 
all,  and  a  genius?  provided,  of  course,  that  the  word  genius 
is  used  in  its  modern  meaning,  of  a  person  who  can  say 
prettier  things  than  his  neighbors.  I  think  not.  Be  it  as 
it  may,  away  goes  the  poor  genius,  his  long  cloak,  pictu- 
resque enough  in  calm  weather,  fluttering  about  uncom- 
fortably enough,  while  the  rain  washes  his  long  curls  into 
swabs  ;  out  through  the  old  garden,  between  storm-swept 
laurels,  beneath  dark  groaning  pines,  and  through  a  door  in 
the  wall  which  opens  into  the  lane. 

The  lane  leads  downward,  on  the  right,  into  the  village. 
He  is  in  no  temper  to  meet  his  fellow-creatures,  even  to  see 
the  comfortable  gleam  through  their  windows,  as  the  sailors 
cose  round  the  fire  with  wife  and  child  ;  so  he  turns  to  the 
left,  up  the  deep  stone-banked  lane,  which  leads  toward 
the  cliff,  dark  now  as  pitch,  for  it  is  overhung,  right  and 
left,  with  deep  oak-wood. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  proceed,  though,  for  the  wind 
pours  down  the  lane  as  through  a  funnel,  and  the  road  is  of 
slippery  bare  slate,  worn  here  and  there  into  puddles  of 
greasy  clay,  and  Elsley  slips  back  half  of  every  step,  while 
liis  wrath,  as  he  tires,  oozes  out  of  his  heels.  Moreover, 
those  dark  trees  above  him,  tossing  their  heads  impatiently 
against  the  scarcely  less  dark  sky,  strike  an  awe  into  him, 
—  a  sense  of  loneliness,  almost  of  fear.  An  uncanny,  bad 
night  it  is  ;  and  he  is  out  on  a  bad  errand ;  and  he  knows 
it,  and  wishes  that  he  were  home  again.  He  does  not 
believe,  of  course,  in  those  "  spirits  of  the  storm,"  about 


ANYTHING   BUT   STILL   LIFE.  47 

wh'om  he  has  so  often  written,  any  more  than  he  does  in  a 
great  deal  of  his  fine  imagery ;  but  still,  in  such  characters 
as  his,  the  sympathy  between  the  moods  of  nature  and 
those  of  the  mind  is  most  real  and  important ;  and  Dame 
Nature's  equinoctial  night-wrath  is  weird,  grewsome, 
crushing,  and  can  be  faced  —  if  it  must  be  faced  —  in  real 
comfort  only  when  one  is  going  on  an  errand  of  mercy, 
with  a  clear  conscience,  a  light  heart,  a  good  cigar,  and 
plenty  of  Mackintosh. 

So,  ere  Elsley  had  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  he  turned 
back,  and  resolved  to  go  in,  and  take  up  his  book  once  more. 
Pex'haps  Lucia  might  beg  his  pardon  ;  and,  if  not,  why,  per- 
haps he  might  beg  hei's.  The  rain  was  washing  the  spirit 
out  of  him  as  it  does  out  of  a  thin-coated  horse. 

Stay  !  What  was  that  sound  above  the  roar  of  the  gale  ? 
—  a  cannon  ? 

He  listened,  turning  his  head  right  and  left  to  escape 
the  howling  of  the  wind  in  his  ears.  A  minute,  and 
another  boom  rose  and  rang  aloft.  It  was  near,  too. 
He  almost  fancied  that  he  felt  the  concussion  of  the  air. 

Another  and  another  ;  and  then,  in  the  village  below, 
he  could  see  lights  hurrying  to  and  fro.  A  wreck  at 
sea  ?  He  turned  again  up  the  lane.  He  had  never  seen 
a  wreck.  What  an  opportunity  for  a  poet ;  and  on  such  a 
night,  too  !  it  would  be  magnificent  if  the  moon  would  but 
come  out !  Just  the  scene,  too,  for  his  excited  temper  I 
He  will  work  on  upward,  let  it  blow  and  rain  as  it  may. 
He  is  not  disappointed.  Ere  he  has  gone  a  hundred  yards,  a 
mass  of  dripping  oil-skin  runs  full  butt  against  him,  knock- 
ing him  against  the  bank  ;  and,  by  the  clank  of  weapons,  he 
recognizes  the  coast-guard  watchman. 

"  Hillo  !  —  who  's  that  ?  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  as  the 
man  recognizes  Elsley's  voice. 

"  What  is  it  ?  —  what  are  the  guns  ?  " 

"  God  knows,  sir  !  Overright  the  Chough  and  Crow  ;  on 
'em,  I'm  afeard.  There  they  go  again!  —  hard  up,  poor 
souls  !  God  help  them  !  "  and  the  man  runs  shouting  down 
the  lane. 

Another  gun,  and  another;  but,  long  ere  Elsley  reaches 
the  cliflF,  they  are  silent ;  and  nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  the 
noise  of  the  storm,  which,  loud  as  it  was  below  among  the 
wood,  is  almost  intolerable  now  that  he  is  on  the  open  down. 

lie  struggles  up  the  lane  toward  the  cliff,  and  there 
pauses,  gasping,  under  the  shelter  of  a  wall,  trying  tc 
analyze  that  enormous  mass  of  sound  which  fills  his  eara 


48  ANYTHING    BUT   STILL    LIFE. 

and  brain,  and  flows  through  his  heart  like  maddening  wine 
He  can  hoar  the  sigh  of  the  dead  grass  on  the  cliff-edge, 
weary,  fe(!blo,  expostulating  with  its  old  tormentor  the 
gale  ;  then  the  lierce  screams  of  the  blasts  as  they  rush  up 
across  the  layers  of  rock  below,  like  hounds  leaping  up  at 
their  prey  ;  and,  far  beneath,  the  horrible  confused  battle- 
i"oar  of  that  great  leaguer  of  waves.  lie  cannot  see  them, 
as  he  strains  his  eyes  over  the  wall  into  the  blank  depth,  — 
nothing  but  a  confused  welter  and  quiver  of  mingled  air, 
and  rain,  and  spray,  as  if  the  very  atmosphere  is  writhing 
in  tiie  clutches  of  the  gale  ;  but  he  can  hear,  — what  can  he 
not  hear  ?  It  would  have  needed  a  less  vivid  brain  than 
Elsley's  to  fancy  another  Badajos  beneath.  There  it  all  is  : 
tlie  rush  of  columns  to  the  breach,  officers  cheering  them 
on  ;  pauses,  breaks,  wild  retreats,  upbraiding  calls,  whis- 
pering consultations,  fresh  rush  on  rush,  now  here,  now 
there  ;  fierce  shouts  above,  below,  behind ;  shrieks  of 
agony,  choked  groans  and  gasps  of  dying  men,  scaling- 
ladders  hurled  down  with  all  their  rattling  freight ;  dull 
mine-explosions,  ringing  cannon-thunder,  as  the  old  forti-ess 
blasts  back  its  besiegers  pell-mell  into  the  deep.  It  is  all 
there  ;  truly  enough  there,  at  least,  to  madden  yet  more 
Elsley's  wild,  angry  brain,  till  he  tries  to  add  his  shouts  to 
the  great  battle-cries  of  land  and  sea,  and  finds  them  as 
little  audible  as  an  infant's  wail. 

Suddenly,  far  below  him,  a  bright  glimmer  ;  and,  in  a 
moment,  a  blue  light  reveals  the  whole  scene,  in  ghastly 
hues,  blue  leaping  breakers,  blue  weltering  sheets  of  foam, 
blue  rocks,  crowded  with  blue  figures,  like  ghosts,  flitting 
to  and  fro  upon  the  brink  of  that  blue  seething  Phlegethon, 
and  rushing  up  toward  him  through  the  air,  a  thousand 
flying  blue  foam-sponges,  which  dive  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill  and  vanish,  like  delicate  fairies  fleeing  before  the  wrath 
of  the  gale  ;  ■ — but  where  is  the  wreck  ?  The  blue  liglit  can- 
not pierce  the  gray  veil  of  mingled  mist  and  spray  wlilcli 
hangs  to  seaward  ;  and  her  guns  have  been  silent  for  half 
an  hour  and  more. 

Elsley  hurries  down,  and  finds  half  the  village  collected 
on  the  long  sloping  point  of  down  below.  Sailors  wrapt  in 
pilot-cloth,  oil-skinned  coast-guardsmen,  women  with  their 
gowns  turned  over  their  heads,  staggering  restlessly  up  and 
down,  and  in  and  out,  while  every  moment  some  fresh 
comer  stumbles  down  the  slope,  thrusting  himself  into  his 
clothes  as  he  goes,  and  asks,  "  Where  's  the  wreck  ?  "  and 
gets  no  answer  but  a  surly  advice  to  "  hold  Ms  noise,"  aa 


ANYTHIXn    BUT   STILL   LIFE.  49 

if  they  had  hope  of  hearing-  the  wreck  which  they  cannot 
see  ;  and  kind  women,  with  their  hearts  full  of  mother's 
instincts,  declare  that  they  can  hear  little  children  cryinj^, 
and  are  pooh-poohed  doivn  by  kind  men,  who,  man's  fash- 
ion, don't  like  to  believe  anything  too  painful,  or,  if  they 
believe  it,  to  talk  of  it. 

"Where  were  the  guns  from,  then,  Jones  ?"  asks  the 
lieutenant  of  the  head-boatman. 

"  Off  the  Chough  and  Crow,  I  thought,  sir.  God  grant 
not!" 

"  You  thought,  sir?  "  says  the  great  man,  willing  to  vent 
his  vexation  on  some  one.  "Why  didn't  you  make 
sure  ? " 

"Why  just  look,  lieutenant,"  says  Jones,  pointing  into 
the  "blank  height  of  the  dark  ;  "  "  and  I  was  on  the  pier 
too,  and  couldn't  see  ;  but  the  look-out  man  here  says  —  " 
A  shift  of  wind,  a  drift  of  cloud,  and  the  moon  flashes  out  a 
moment.     "  There  she  is,  sir  !  " 

Some  three  hundred  yards  out  at  sea  lies  a  long  curved 
black  line,  beautiful,  severe,  and  still,  amid  those  white  wild 
leaping  hills.  A  murmur  from  the  crowd,  which  swells  into 
a  roar,  as  they  surge  aimlessly  up  and  down. 

Another  moment,  and  it  is  cut  in  two  by  a  white  line  — 
covered  —  lost  —  all  hold  their  breaths.  No  ;  the  sea  passes 
on,  and  still  the  black  curve  is  there,  enduring. 

"  A  terrible  big  ship  !  " 

"A  Liverpool  clipper,  by  the  lines  of  her." 

"God  help  the  poor  passengers,  then!  "  sobs  a  woman 
"They're  past  our  help  ;  she's  on  her  beam-ends." 

"  And  her  deck  upright  toward  us." 

"  Silence  !  Out  of  the  way,  you  loafing  long-shores  !  " 
shouts  the  lieutenant.      "  Jones,  —  the  rockets  !  " 

What  though  the  lieutenant  be  somewhat  given  to  strong 
liquors,  and  stronger  language  ?  He  wears  the  Queen's 
uniform  ;  and  what  is  more,  he  knows  his  work,  and  can  do 
it.  All  make  a  silent  ring  while  the  fork  is  planted  ;  the 
lieutenant,  throwing  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  kneels  and 
adjusts  tlie  stick  ;  Jones  and  his  mates  examine  and  shake 
out  the  coils  of  line. 

Another  minute,  and  the  magnificent  creature  rushes  forth 
with  a  triumphant  roar,  and  soars  aloft  over  the  waves  in  a 
long  stream  of  fire,  defiant  of  the  gale. 

Is  it  over  her  ?     No  !     A  fiei'ce  gust,  which  all  but  hurls 
the  spectators  to  the  ground  ;  the  fiery  stream  sweeps  away 
5 


50  ANYTHING   BUT   STILL   LIFE. 

to  the  left,  in  a  grand  curve  of  sparks,  and  drops  into  iue 
sea. 

"  Try  it  again  !  "  shouts  the  lieutenant,  his  blood  now  up. 
"  We  '11  see  which  will  beat,  wind  or  powder." 

Again  a  rocket  is  fixed,  with  more  allowance  for  the 
wind  ;  but  the  black  curve  has  disappeared,  and  he  must 
wait  a  while. 

"There  it  is  again!  Fly  swift  and  sure,"  cries  Elsley, 
"  thou  fiery  angel  of  mercy,  bearing  the  savior-line  1  It 
may  not  be  too  late  yet." 

Full  and  true  the  rocket  went  across  her;  and  "three 
cheers  for  the  lieutenant !  "  rose  above  the  storm. 

"  Silence,  lads  !  Not  so  bad,  though,"  says  he,  rubbing 
his  wet  hands.  "  Hold  on  by  the  line,  and  watch  for  a  bite, 
Jones." 

Five  minutes  pass.  Jones  has  the  line  in  his  hand,  wait- 
ing for  any  signal  touch  from  the  ship  ;  but  the  line  sways 
limp  in  the  surge. 

Ten  minutes.  The  lieutenant  lights  a  fresh  cigar,  and 
paces  up  and  down,  smoking  fiercely. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour ;  and  yet  no  response.  The  moon 
is  shining  clearly  now.  They  can  see  her  hatchways,  the 
stumps  of  her  masts,  great  tangles  of  rigging  swaying  and 
lashing  down  across  her  deck  ;  but  that  delicate  black  upper 
curve  is  becoming  more  ragged  after  every  wave  ;  and  the 
tide  is  rising  fast. 

"  There  's  a  pull  !  "  shouts  Jones.  ..."  No  there  an't  I 
.  God  have  mercy,  sir  !     She  's  going  !  " 

The  black  curve  boils  up,  as  if  a  mine  had  been  sprung  on 
board  ;  leaps  into  arches,  jagged  peaks,  black  bars  crossed 
and  tangled  ;  and  then  all  melts  away  into  the  white  seeth- 
ing waste  ;  while  the  line  floats  home  helplessly,  as  if  disap- 
pointed ;  and  the  billows  plunge  more  sullenly  and  sadly 
toward  the  shore,  as  if  in  remorse  for  their  dark  and  reckless 
deed. 

All  is  over.  What  shall  we  do  now  ?  Go  home,  and 
pray  that  God  may  have  mercy  on  all  drowning  souls  ?  Or 
think  what  a  picturesque  and  tragical  scene  it  was,  and 
u'liat  a  beautiful  poem  it  will  make,  when  we  have  thrown 
it  into  an  artistic  form,  and  bedizened  it  with  conceits  and 
analogies  stolen  from  all  heaven  and  earth  by  our  own  self- 
willed  fancy? 

Elsloy  Vavasour  —  through  whose  spectacles,  rather  than 
with  my  own  eyes,  I  have  been  looking  at  the  wreck,  and 
to  whose  account,  not  to  mine,  the  metaphors  and  similes 


ANYTmNG   BUT   STILL   LIFE.  51 

of  the  last  two  pages  must  be  laid  —  took  the  latter  course  ; 
not  that  he  was  not  awed,  calmed,  and  even  humbled,  as  he 
felt  how  poor  and  petty  his  own  troubles  were,  compared 
with  tliat  great  tragedy  ;  but,  in  his  fatal  habit  of  considering 
all  matters  in  heaven  and  earth  as  bricks  and  mortar  for  the 
poet  to  build  with,  he  considered  that  he  had  ' '  seen  enough ;  " 
as  if  men  were  sent  into  the  world  to  see,  and  not  to  act ; 
and  going  home  too  excited  to  sleep,  much  more  to  go  and 
kiss  forgiveness  to  his  sleeping  wife,  sat  up  all  night  writ- 
ing "  The  Wreck,"  which  may  be  (as  the  reviewer  in  "  The 
Parthenon  "  asserts)  an  exquisite  poem  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
that  it  is  of  much  importance. 

So  the  delicate  genius  sate  that  night,  scribbling  verses 
by  a  warm  fire,  and  the  rough  lieutenant  settled  himself 
down  in  his  Mackintoshes,  to  sit  out  those  weary  hours  on 
the  bare  rock,  having  done  all  that  he  could  do,  and  yet 
knowing  that  his  duty  was,  not  to  leave  the  place  as  long 
as  there  was  the  chance  of  saving —  not  a  life,  for  that  was 
past  all  hope  —  but  a  chest  of  clothes,  or  a  stick  of  timber. 
There  he  settled  himself,  grumbling,  yet  faithful ;  and  filled 
up  the  time  with  sleepy  maledictions  against  some  old  ad- 
miral, who  had  —  or  had  not  —  taken  a  spite  to  him  in  the 
West  Indies  thirty  years  before,  else  he  would  have  been  a 
post  captain  by  now,  comfortably  in  bed  on  board  a  crack 
fi'igate,  instead  of  sitting  all  night  out  on  a  rock,  like  an  old 
cormorant,  &c.,  &c.  Who  knows  not  the  woes  of  ancient 
coast-guard  lieutenants  ? 

But,  as  it  befell,  Elsley  Vavasour  was  justly  punished  for 
going  home,  by  losing  the  most  "  poetical  "  incident  of  the 
whole  night. 

For  with  the  coast-guardsmen  many  sailors  stayed.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  earned  by  staying  ;  but  still  who  knew  but 
they  might  be  wanted  ?  And  they  hung  on  with  the  same 
feeling  which  tempts  one  to  linger  round  a  grave  ere  the 
earth  is  filled  in,  loth  to  give  up  the  last  sight,  and  with  it 
the  last  hope.  The  ship  herself,  over  and  above  her  lost 
crew,  was  in  their  eyes  a  person,  to  be  loved  and  regretted. 
And  gentleman  Jan  spoke,  like  a  true  sailor  : 

"  Ah,  poor  dear  !  And  she  such  a  beauty,  Mr.  Jones  ;  a 
any  one  might  see  by  her  lines,  even  that  way  off.  Ah 
poor  dear!  " 

"  And  so  many  brave  souls  on  board  ;  and,  perhaps,  some 
of  them  not  ready,  Mr.  Beer,"  says  the  serious  elderly  chief 
boatman.     "  Eh,  Captain  Willis  ?  " 

"  The  Lord   has   had   mercy  on   them,  I  don't   doubt," 


52  ANYTHING    BUT   STILL   LIFE. 

answers  the  old  man,  in  his  quiet  sweet  voice.  "  One  can'< 
but  hope  that  He  would  give  them  time  for  one  prayer 
before  all  was  over  ;  a;id  having-  been  drowned  myself,  Mr. 
Jones,  three  times,  and  taken  up  for  dead, — that  is,  once 
in  Gibraltar  ba}',  and  once  when  I  was  a  total  wreck  in  the 
old  Seahorse,  that  was  in  the  hurricane  in  the  Indies  ;  after 
tliat,  wlien  I  fell  over  quaj^-head  here,  fishing  for  bass, — 
wliy,  1  know  well  how  quick  the  prayer  will  run  through  a 
man's  heart,  when  he's  a  drowning,  and  the  light  of  con- 
tjcience,  too,  all  one's  life  in  one  minute,  like  —  " 

"  It  arn't  the  men  I  care  for,"  says  gentleman  Jan  ' 
"  they  're  gone  to  heaven,  like  all  brave  sailors  do  as  dies  by 
wrack  and  battle  ;  but  the  poor  dear  ship,  d'  ye  see,  Captain 
Willis,  she  han't  no  heaven  to  go  to,  and  that's  why  I  feels 
for  her  so." 

Both  the  old  men  shake  their  heads  at  Jan's  doctrine,  and 
turn  the  subject  off. 

"  You  'd  better  go  home,  captain,  'fear  of  the  rheumatics. 
It 's  a  rough  night  for  your  years  ;  and  you  've  no  call,  like 
me." 

"I  would,  but  for  my  maid  there;  and  I  can't  get  her 
home  ;  and  I  can't  leave  her."  And  Willis  points  to  the 
schoolmistress,  who  sits  upon  the  flat  slope  of  rock,  a  little 
apart  from  the  rest, with  her  face  resting  on  her  hands,  gaz- 
ing intently  out  into  the  wild  waste. 

"  Make  her  go  ;  it 's  her  duty  —  we  all  have  our  duties. 
Why  does  her  mother  let  her  out  at  this  time  of  night  ?  I 
keep  my  maids  tighter  than  that,  I  warrant."  And  disci- 
plinarian Mr.  Jones  makes  a  step  towards  her. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Jones,  don't  now !  She 's  not  one  of  us. 
There  's  no  saying  what 's  going  on  there  in  her.  May  be 
she  's  praj'ing  ;  may  be  she  sees  more  than  we  do,  over  the 
sea  there." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  There  's  no  living  body  in  those 
breakers,  be  sure  !  " 

"  There  's  more  living  things  about  on  such  a  night  than 
have  bodies  to  them,  or  than  any  but  such  as  she  can  see. 
li'  any  one  ever  talked  with  angels,  that  maid  does;  and 
I  've  heard  her,  too  ;  I  can  say  I  have  —  certain  of  it.  Those 
that  like  may  call  her  an  innocent ;  but  I  wish  I  were  such 
an  innocent,  Mr.  Jones.  I  'd  be  nearer  heaven  then,  here 
on  earth,  than  I  fear  sometimes  I  ever  shall  be,  even  aftei 
I  'm  dead  and  gone." 

"  Well,  she  's  a  good  girl,  mazed  or  not ;  but  look  at  hei 
aow  !     What 's  she  after  ?  " 


ANYTHING   BUT   STILL   LIFE.  53 

The  girl  had  raised  her  head,  and  was  pointing',  with  one 
arm  stretched  stiffly  out,  toward  the  sea. 

Old  Willis  went  down  to  her,  and  touched  her  gently  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Come  home,  my  maid,  then,  you  '11  take  cold,  indeed  ;  " 
but  she  did  not  move  or  lower  her  arm. 

The  old  man,  accustomed  to  her  fits  of  fixed  melanchol}'-, 
looked  down  under  her  bonnet,  to  see  whether  she  was 
"past,"  as  he  called  it.  By  the  moonlight  he  could  see 
her  great  eyes  steady  and  wide  open.  She  motioned  him 
away,  half  impatiently,  and  then  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a 
scream. 

"  A  man  !  a  man  1    Save  him  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  a  huge  wave  rolled  in,  and  shot  up  the 
Bioping  end  of  the  point  in  a  broad  sheet  of  foam.  And  out 
of  it  struggled,  on  hands  and  knees,  a  human  figure.  He 
looked  wildly  up,  and  round,  and  then  his  head  dropped 
again  on  his  breast ;  and  he  lay  clinging  with  outspread 
arms,  like  Homer's  polypus  in  the  Odyssey,  as  the  wave 
drained  back,  in  a  thousand  roaring  cataracts,  over  the 
edge  of  the  rock. 

"  Save  him  !  "  shrieked  she  again,  as  twenty  men  i-ushed 
forward  —  and  stopped  short.  The  man  was  fully  thirty 
yards  from  them  ;  but  close  to  him,  between  them  and  him, 
stretched  a  long  ghastly  crack,  some  ten  feet  wide,  cutting 
the  point  across.  All  knew  it ;  its  slippery  edge,  its  pol- 
ished upright  sides,  the  seething  caldrons  within  it;  and 
knew,  too,  that  the  next  wave  would  boil  up  from  it  in  a 
hundred  jets,  and  suck  in  the  strongest  to  his  doom,  to  fall, 
with  brains  dashed  out,  into  a  chasm  from  which  was  no 
return. 

Ere  they  could  nerve  themselves  for  action,  the  wave  had 
come.  Up  the  slope  it  swept,  one  half  of  it  burying  the 
wretched  mariner,  and  fell  over  into  the  chasm.  The  other 
half  rushed  up  the  chasm  itself,  and  spouted  forth  again  to 
the  moonlight  in  columns  of  snow,  in  time  to  meet  the  wave 
from  which  it  had  just  parted,  as  it  fell  fii'om  above  ;  and 
then  the  two  boiled  up,  and  round,  and  over,  and  swiiled 
along  the  smooth  rock  to  their  very  feet. 

The  schoolmistress  took  one  long  look,  and,  as  the  wave 
retired,  rushed  after  it  to  the  very  brink  of  the  chasm,  and 
flung  herself  on  her  knees. 

"  She  's  mazed  !  " 

"  No  she  's  not !  "  almost  screamed  old  Willis,  in  mingled 
pride  and  terror,  as  he  rushed  after  her.  "  The  wave  has 
5* 


54  ANYTHING    BUT   STILL   LIFE. 

carried  him  across  the  crack,  and  she  's  got  him  !  "     And 
he  sprang  upon  lier,  and  cauglit  her  round  the  waist. 

"  Now,  if  you  be  men  !  "  shouted  he,  as  the  rest  hurried 
down. 

"  Now,  if  you  be  men  ;  before  the  next  wave  comes  !  " 
shouted  big  Jan.  "  Hands  together,  and  make  a  line  !  " 
And  he  took  a  grip  with  one  hand  of  the  old  man's  waist- 
band, and  held  out  the  other  hand  for  who  would  to  seize. 

Who  took  it  ?  Frank  Ileadley,  the  curate,  who  had  been 
watching  all  sadly  apart,  longing  to  do  something  which 
no  one  could  mistake. 

"  Be  you  man  enough  ?  "  asked  big  Jan,  doubtfully. 

"Try,"  said  Frank. 

"  Really,  you  ben't,  sir,"  said  Jan,  civilly  enough. 
"  Means  no  offence,  sir  ;  your  heart 's  stout  enough,  1  see  ; 
but  you  don't  know  what  it'll  be."  And  he  caught  the 
hand  of  a  huge  fellow  next  him,  while  Frank  shrank  sadly 
back  into  the  darkness. 

Strong  hand  after  hand  was  clasped,  and  strong  knee 
after  knee  dropped  almost  to  the  rock,  to  meet  the  coming 
rush  of  water  ;  and  all  who  knew  their  business  took  a  long 
breath,  —  they  might  have  need  of  one. 

It  came,  and  surged  over  the  man,  and  the  girl,  and  up 
to  old  Willis's  throat,  and  round  the  knees  of  Jan  and  his 
neighbor  ;  and  then  followed  the  returning  out-draught,  and 
every  limb  quivered  with  the  strain  ;  but  when  the  cataract 
had  disappeared,  the  chain  was  still  unbroken, 

"  Saved  I  "  and  a  cheer  broke  from  all  lips,  save  those  of 
the  girl  herself.  She  was  as  senseless  as  he  whom  she 
had  saved.  They  hurried  her  and  him  up  the  rock  ere 
another  wave  could  come  ;  but  they  had  much  ado  to  open 
her  hands,  so  firmly  clenched  together  were  they  round  his 
waist. 

Gently  they  lifted  each,  and  laid  them  on  the  rock  ;  while 
old  Willis,  having  recovered  his  breath,  set  to  work,  crying 
like  a  child,  to  restore  breath  to  "  his  maiden." 

"  Run  ibr  Dr.  Heale,  some  good  Christian  1  "  But  Frank, 
longing  to  escape  from  a  company  who  did  not  love  him, 
and  to  be  of  some  use  ere  the  night  was  out,  was  already 
hair  way  to  the  village  on  that  very  errand. 

However,  ere  the  doctor  could  be  stirred  out  of  his 
boozy  slumbers,  and  thrust  into  his  clothes  by  his  wife,  the 
schoolmistress  was  safe  in  bed  at  her  mother's  house  ;  and 
the  man,  weak,  but  alive,  carried  triumphal. tly  up  to  Ileale's 
door  ;  which  having  been  kicked  open,  the  sailors  insisted 


ANYTHING   BUT   STILL  LIFE.  55 

in  cairying  him  right  up  stairs,  and  depositing  him  on  the 
best  spare  bed. 

"  If  you  won't  come  to  your  patients,  doctor,  yom 
patients  shall  come  to  you.  Why  were  you  asleep  in  your 
liquors,  instead  cf  looking  out  for  poor  wratches,  like  a 
Christian  ?  You  see  whether  his  bones  be  broke,  and 
gi'un  his  medicines  proper  ;  and  then  go  and  see  after  the 
schoolmistress  ;  she  'm  worth  a  dozen  of  any  man,  and  a 
thousand  of  you  !  We  '11  pay  for  'un  like  men  ;  and  if  you 
don't,  we  '11  break  every  bottle  in  your  shop." 

To  which,  what  between  bodily  fear  and  real  good-nature. 
eld  Heale  assented  ;  and  so  ended  that  eventful  night. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND   LAGEND. 

About  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  gentleman  Jan 
BtroUed  into  Dr.  Heale's  surgery,  pipe  in  mouth,  with  an 
attendant  satellite  ;  for  every  lion, — poor  as  well  as  rich, 
—  in  country  as  in  town,  must  needs  have  his  jackal. 

Heale's  surgery  —  or,  in  plain  English,  shop  —  was  a 
doleful  hole  enough  ;  in  such  dirt  and  confusion  as  might 
be  expected  from  a  drunken  occupant,  with  a  practice  which 
was  only  not  decaying  because  there  was  no  rival  in  the 
field.  But  monopoly  made  tlie  old  man,  as  it  makes  most 
men,  all  the  more  lazy  and  careless  ;  and  there  was  not  a 
drug  or  his  shelves  which  could  be  warranted  to  work  the 
effect  set  forth  in  that  sanguine  and  too  trustful  book,  the 
Pharmacopoeia,  which,  like  Mr.  Pecksniff''s  England,  ex- 
pects every  man  to  do  his  duty,  and  is,  accordingly  (as 
the  Lancet  and  Dr.  Letheby  know  too  well),  grievously 
disappointed. 

In  tliis  kennel  of  evil  savors,  Heale  was  slowly  trying  to 
poke  things  into  something  like  order  ;  and  dragging  out  a 
few*  old  drugs  with  a  shaky  hand,  to  see  if  any  one  would 
buy  them,  in  a  vague  expectation  that  something  must 
needs  have  happened  to  somebody,  the  night  befoi'e,  which 
would  require  somewhat  of  his  art. 

And  he  was  not  disappointed.  Gentleman  Jan,  without 
taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  dropped  his  huge  elbows 
on  the  counter,  and  his  black-fringed  chin  on  his  fists,  took 
a  look  round  the  shop,  as  if  to  find  something  which  would 
suit  him,  and  then  — 

"  I  say,  doctor,  gi 's  some  tackleum." 

"  Some  diachylum  plaster,  Mr.  Beer  ? "  says  Heale, 
meekly.     "  What  for,  then  ?  " 

"  To  tackle  my  shins.  I  barked  'em  cruel  against  King 
.Arthur's  nose  last  night.  Hard  in  the  bone,  he  is  ;  —  wish 
[  was  as  hard." 

"How  much  diachylum  will  you  want,  then,  Mr.  Beer?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.     Let 's  see  !  "  and  Jan  pulls  up 

(56) 


FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND   LAGEND.  57 

his  blue  trousers,  and  pulls  down  his  gray  rig  and  furrows, 
and  considers  his  broad  and  shaggy  shins. 

"  Matter  of  four  pennies  broad  ;  two  to  each  leg  ;  "  and 
then  replaces  his  elbows,  and  smokes  on. 

"  I  say,  doctor,  that  'ere  curate  come  out  well  last  night 
I  shall  go  to  church  next  Sunday." 

"  What,"  asks  the  satellite,  "  after  you  upset  he  that 
fashion,  yesterday  ?  " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  thinks,"  says  Jan,  who,  of 
course,  bullies  his  jackal,  like  most  lions  ;  "but  I  goes  to 
church.  He  's  a  good  'un,  say  I,  —  little  and  good,  like  a 
Welshman's  cow  ;  and  clapped  me  on  the  back  when  we  'd 
got  the  man  and  the  maid  safe,  and  says,  '  Well  done  our 
side,  old  fellow  ! '  and  stands  something  hot  all  round, 
what 's  more,  in  at  the  Mariners'  Rest.  I  say,  doctor, 
where  's  he  as  we  hauled  ashore  ?    I  '11  go  up  and  see  'un." 

"  Not  now,  then,  Mr.  Beer  ;  not  now,  then.  He  's  sleep- 
ing, indeed  he  is,  like  any  child." 

"  So  much  the  better.  We  wain't  be  bothered  with  his 
Hollering.  But  go  up  I  will.  Do  you  let  me,  now  ;  I  '11 
be  as  still  as  a  maid." 

And  Jan  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and  marched  on  tiptoe 
through  the  shop,  while  Dr.  Heale,  moaning  professional 
ejaculations,  showed  him  the  way. 

The  shipwrecked  man  was  sleeping  sweetly  ;  and  little 
was  to  be  seen  of  his  face,  so  covered  was  it  with  dark 
tangled  curls  and  thick  beard. 

"  Ah  !  a  'Stralian  digger,  by  the  beard  of  him,  and  his 
red  jersey,"  whispered  Jan,  as  he  bent  tenderly  over  the 
poor  fellow,  and  put  his  head  on  one  side  to  listen  to  his 
breathing.  "  Beautiful  he  sleeps,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Jan  ; 
"and  a  tidy-looking  chap,  too.  'T  is  a  pity  to  wake  'uti, 
poor  wratch  :  and  he,  perhaps,  with  a  sweetheart  aboard, 
and  drownded  ;  or  else  all  his  kit  lost.  Let  'un  sleep  so 
long  as  he  can  ;  he  '11  find  all  out  soon  enough,  God  help 
him  !  " 

And  big  Jan  stole  down  the  stairs  gently  and  reverently, 
like  a  true  sailor,  and  took  his  diachylum,  and  went  off  to 
plaster  his  shins. 

About  ten  minutes  afterwards,  Heale  was  made  aware 
that  his  guest  was  awake,  by  sundry  grunts  and  ejacula- 
tions, which  ended  in  a  series  of  long  and  doleful  whistles, 
and  then  broke  out  into  a  song.  So  he  went  up,  and  found 
the  stranger  sitting  upright  in  bed,  combing  his  curls  with 
his  fingers,  and  chanting  unto  himself  a  cheerful  ditty. 


58  FLOTSOM.  JETSOM,  AND    LAGEND. 

"  Good  morning,  doctor,"  quoth  he,  as  his  host  entered, 
"  Very  kind  of  you,  this.  Hope  I  haven't  turned  a  bettei 
man  than  myself  out  of  his  bed." 

"  Delighted  to  see  you  so  well.  Verj  near  drowned, 
though.  We  were  pumping  at  your  lungs  for  a  full  half 
hour." 

"  Ah  ?  —  nothing,  though,  for  an  experienced  professional 
man  like  you  !  " 

"Hum!  Speaks  well  for  your  discrimination,"  says 
Heale,  flattered.  "  Very  well-spoken  young  person,  though 
his  beard  is  a  bit  wild.  How  did  you  know,  then,  that  I 
was  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  By  the  reverend  looks  of  you,  sir.  Besides,  I  smelt 
the  rhubarb  and  senna  all  the  way  up  stairs,  and  knew  that 
[  'd  ftUen  among  prufessioual  brethren  : 

•  0,  then  this  valiant  mariner 

Which  sailed  across  the  sea, 
lie  came  home  to  his  own  sweetheart 
With  his  heart  so  full  of  glee  ; 

♦  With  his  heart  so  full  of  glee,  sir, 

And  his  pockets  full  of  gold, 
And  his  bag  of  drugget,  with  many  a  nugget. 
As  heavy  as  he  could  hold.' 

Don't  you  wish  yours  was,  doctor  ?  " 

"  Eh,  eh,  eh,"  sniggered  Heale. 

"  Mine  was  last  night.  Now,  doctor,  let  us  have  a  glass 
of  brandy  and  water,  hot  with,  and  an  hour's  more  sleep  ; 
and  then  kick  me  out,  and  into  the  workhouse.  Was  any- 
body else  saved  from  the  wreck  last  night  ?  " 

"  Nobody,  sir,"  said  Heale;  and  said  'sir,'  because,  in 
spite  of  the  stranger's  rough  looks,  his  accent  —  or,  rather, 
his  no-accent  —  showed  him  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  a 
very  different,  and  probably  a  very  superior  stamp  of  man 
to  himself;  in  the  light  of  which  conviction  (and  being 
withal  a  good-natured  old  soul),  he  went  down  and  mixed 
him  a  stiff  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  answering  his  wife's 
remonstrances  by  — 

"  The  party  up  stairs  is  a  bit  of  a  frantic  party,  certainly  ; 
but  he  is  certainly  a  very  superior  party,  and  has  the  true 
gentleman  about  him,  any  one  can  see.  Besides,  he  's  ship- 
wrecked, as  you  and  I  may  be  any  day  ;  and  what 's  like 
brandy  and  water  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  know  when  I  'm  like  to  be  shipwrecked, 
or  you  either,"  says  Mrs.  Heale,  in  a  tone  slightly  savoring 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND    LAGEND.  59 

3f  indignation  and  contempt.  "  You  think  of  nothing  but 
orandy  and  water."  But  she  let  the  doctor  take  the  gU^ss 
up  stairs,  nevertheless. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  Frank  came  in  and  inquired  for 
the  shipwrecked  man. 

"  Well  enough  in  body,  sV ;  and  rather  requires  your  skill 
cuan  mine,"  said  the  old  time-server.  "  Won't  you  walk 
up  ?  " 

So  up  Frank  was  shown. 

The  stranger  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  "  Capital,  your 
brandy  is,  doctor.  Ah,  sir,"  seeing  Frank,  "  it  is  very  kind 
of  you,  I  am  sure,  to  call  on  me  !  I  presume  you  are  the 
clergyman?  " 

But  before  Frank  could  answer,  Heale  had  broken  forth 
into  loud  praises  of  him,  setting  forth  how  the  stranger 
owed  his  life  entirely  to  his  superhuman  strength  and 
courage. 

"  Ton  my  word,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  —  looking  them 
both  over  and  over,  and  through  and  tlirough,  as  if  to  settle 
how  much  of  all  this  he  was  to  believe,  —  "I  am  deeply 
indebted  to  you  for  your  gallantry.  I  only  wish  it  had  been 
employed  on  a  better  subject." 

"My  good  sir,"  said  Frank,  blushing,  "you  owe  your 
life  not  to  me.  I  would  have  helped  if  I  could  ;  but  was 
not  thought  worthy  by  our  sons  of  Anak  here.  Your  actual 
preserver  was  a  young  girl." 

And  Frank  told  him  the  story. 

"Whew  !  I  hope  she  won't  expect  me  to  marry  her  as 
payment !     Handsome  ?  " 

"Beautiful,"  said  Frank. 

"  Money  ?  " 

"  The  village  schoolmistress." 

"Clever?" 

"  A  sort  of  half-baked  body,"  said  Heale. 

"  A  very  puzzling  intellect,"  said  Frank. 

"  Ah  !  well,  that 's  a  fair  excuse  for  declining  the  honor. 
I  can't  be  expected  to  marry  a  frantic  party,  as  you  called 
me,  down  stairs,  just  now,  doctor." 

"I,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  I  heard  ;  —  no  offence,  though,  my  good  sir,  —  but 
I  've  the  ears  of  a  fox.  I  hope  really,  though,  that  she  is 
none  the  worse  for  her  heroic  flights." 

"  How  is  she,  this  morning,  Mr.  Heale  ?  " 

"  Well,  poor  thing,  a  little  light-headed  last  night  ;  but 
kindly  when  I  went  in  last." 


60  FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND    LAGEND. 

"  Whew  !  I  hope  she  has  not  fallen  in  love  with  me  ! 
She  may  fancy  me  her  property  —  a  private  waif  and  stray. 
Better  send  for  the  coast-guard  officer,  and  let  him  claim  me 
as  belonging  to  the  Admiralty,  as  tlotsom,  jetsom,  and 
lagend  ;  for  I  was  all  three  last  night." 

"  You  were,  indeed,  sir,"  said  Frank,  who  began  to  be  a 
little  tired  of  this  levity  ;  "  and  very  thankful  to  Heaven 
you  ought  to  be  I" 

Frank  spoke  this  in  a  somewhat  professional  tone  of  voice ; 
at  which  the  stranger  arched  his  eyebrows,  screwed  his 
lips  up,  and  laid  his  ears  back,  like  a  horse  when  he  medi- 
tates a  kick. 

"  You  must  be  better  acquainted  with  my  affairs  than  I 
am,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  are  able  to  state  that  fact.  Doctor, 
I  hear  a  patient  coming  into  the  surgery." 

"Extraordinary  power  of  hearing,  to  be  sure,"  said 
Heale,  toddling  down  stairs,  while  the  stranger  went  on, 
looking  Frank  full  in  the  face. 

"  Now  that  old  fogy  's  gone  down  stairs,  my  dear  sir,  let 
us  come  to  an  understanding  at  the  beginning  of  our 
acquaintance.  Of  course,  you  're  bound  by  your  cloth  to 
Bay  that  sort  of  thing  to  me,  just  as  I  am  bound  by  it  not 
to  swear  in  your  company  ;  but  you  '11  allow  me  to  remark, 
that  it  would  be  rather  trying,  even  to  your  faith,  if  you. 
were  thrown  ashore,  with  nothing  in  the  world  but  an  old 
jersey  and  a  bag  of  tobacco,  two  hundred  miles  short  of  the 
port  where  you  hoped  to  land  with  fifteen  hundred  well- 
earned  pounds  in  your  pocket." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Frank,  after  a  pause,  "  whatsoever 
comes  from  our  Father's  hand  must  be  meant  in  love.  '  The 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away.'" 

A  quaint  wince  passed  over  the  stranger's  face. 

"Father,  sir?  That  fifteen  hundred  pounds  was  going 
to  my  father's  hand,  from  whosesoever  hand  it  came,  or  the 
.  loss  of  it.  And  now  what  is  to  become  of  the  poor  old  man, 
that  hussy,  Dame  Fortune,  only  knows, — if  she  knows  her 
mind  an  hour  together,  which  I  very  much  doubt.  I  worked 
early  and  late  for  that  money,  sir  ;  up  to  my  knees  in  mud 
and  water.  Let  it  be  enough  for  your  lofty  demands  on 
poor  humanity,  that  I  take  my  loss  like  a  man,  with  a  whis- 
tle and  a  laugh,  instead  of  howling  and  cursing  over  it  like 
a  baboon.  Let's  talk  of  something  else  ;  and  lend  me  five 
pounds  and  a  suit  of  cluthes,  1  shan't  run  away  with  them, 
for,  as  I  've  been  thrown  ashore  here,  here  I  shall  stay." 

Frank  almost  laughed  at  the  free-and-easy  request,  though 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND   LAGEND.  61 

he  ff^lt  at  once  pained  by  the  man's  irreligion,  and  abashed 
by  liis  stoicism.  Would  he  have  behaved  even  as  well  in 
such  a  case  ? 

"  I  have  not  five  pounds  in  the  world." 

"  Good  !  we  shall  understand  each  other  the  better." 

"  But  the  suit  of  clothes  you  shall  have  at  once." 

"  Good  again  !  Let  it  be  your  oldest;  for  I  must  do  a 
Little  rock-scrambling  here,  for  purposes  of  my  own." 

So  off  went  Frank  to  fetch  the  clothes,  puzzling  over  hia 
new  parishioner.  The  man  was  not  altogether  well  bred, 
either  in  voice  or  manner  ;  but  there  was  an  ease,  a  confi- 
dence, a  sense  of  power,  which  made  Frank  feel  that  he  had 
fallen  in  with  a  very  strong  nature  ;  and  one  which  had  seen 
many  men,  and  many  lands,  and  profited  by  what  it  had 
seen. 

When  he  returned,  he  found  the  stranger  busy  at  his 
ablutions,  and  gradually  appearing  as  a  somewhat  dapper, 
handsome  fellow,  with  a  bright  gray  eye,  a  short  nose,  a 
firm,  small  mouth,  a  broad  and  upright  forehead,  across  the 
left  side  of  which  ran  a  fearful  scar. 

"  That 's  a  shrewd  mark,"  said  he,  as  he  caught  Frank's 
eye  fixed  on  it,  while  he  sat  coolly  arranging  himself  on 
the  bedside.  "  I  got  it  in  fair  fight,  though,  by  a  Crow's 
tomahawk,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  And  here  's  another 
token  (lifting  up  his  black  curls),  which  a  Greek  robber 
gave  me  in  the  Morea.  I  've  another  under  my  head,  for 
which  I  have  to  thank  a  Tartar,  and  one  or  two  more  little 
remembrances  of  flood  and  field  up  and  down  me.  Perhaps 
they  may  explain  to  you  why  I  take  life  and  death  so  coolly. 
I  've  looked  too  often  at  the  little  razor-bridge  which  parts 
them,  to  care  much  for  either.  Now  don't  let  me  trouble 
you  any  longer.  You  have  your  flock  to  see  to,  I  don't 
doubt.  You  '11  find  me  at  church  on  Sunday.  I  always  do 
at  Rome  as  Rome  does." 

"  Then  you  will  stay  away,"  said  Frank,  with  a  sad 
«mile. 

"Ah  ?  No.  Church  is  respectable  and  aristocratic  ;  and 
there  one  don't  get  sent  to  a  place  unmentionable,  ten 
times  in  an  hour,  by  some  inspired  tinker.  Beside,  country 
people  like  the  doctor  to  go  to  church  with  their  betters  ; 
and  the  very  fellows  who  go  to  the  Methodist  meeting  them- 
selves would  think  it  infra  dig.  in  me  to  walk  in  there. 
Now,  good-by  —  though  I  haven't  introduced  myself — not 
knowing  the  name  of  my  kind  preserver." 

"My  name  is  Frank  Headley,  Curate  of  the  Parish," 
6 


62  FLOTSOM,  JETSOHr,  AND    LAG  END. 

Baid  Frank,  smiling  ;  thongli  lie  saw  the  man  was  rattling 
on  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  his  talking  on  serioug 
matters. 

"And  mine  is  Tom  Thurnall,  F.  R.  C.  S.,  licentiate  of 
the  Universities  of  Paris,  Glasgow,  and  whilom  surgeon 
of  the  good  clipper  Hesperus,  which  you  saw  wrecked  last 
night.     So,  farewell !  " 

"  Come  over  with  me,  and  have  some  breakfast." 

"  No,  thanks  ;  you  '11  be  busy.  I  '11  screw  some  out  oi 
old  bottles  here." 

"  And  now,"  said  Tom  Thurnall  to  himself,  as  Frank  left 
the  room,  "to  begin  life  again  with  an  old  penknife  and  «» 
pound  of  honej'-dew.  I  wonder  which  of  them  got  my  gir 
die.  I  '11  stick  here  till  I  find  out  that  one  thing,  and  stop 
the  notes  by  to-day's  post,  if  1  can  but  recollect  them  all ; 
—  if  I  could  but  stop  the  nugget,  too  !  " 

So  saying,  he  walked  down  into  the  surgery,  and  looked 
round.  Everj'thing  was  in  confusion.  Cobwebs  were  over 
the  bottles,  and  armies  of  mites  played  at  bo-peep  behind 
them.  He  tried  a  few  drawers,  and  found  that  they  stuck 
fast ;  and  when  he  at  last  opened  one,  its  contents  were 
two  old  dried-up  horse-balls,  and  a  dirty  tobacco-pipe.  He 
took  down  a  jar  marked  Epsom  salts,  and  found  it  full  of 
Welsh  snuff;  the  next,  which  was  labelled  cinnamon,  con- 
tained blue  vitriol.  The  spatula  and  pill-roller  were  crusted 
with  deposits  of  every  hue.  The  pill-box  drawer  had  not 
a  dozen  whole  boxes  in  it ;  and  the  counter  was  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  deep  in  deposit  of  evcr^'  vegetable  and  mineral 
matter,  including  ends  of  string,  tobacco  ashes,  and  broken 
glass, 

Tom  took  up  a  dirty  duster,  and  set  to  work  coolly  to 
clear  up,  whisthng  away  so  merrily  that  he  brought  in 
Heale. 

"  I  'm  doing  a  little  in  the  wav  of  business,  you  see." 

"  Then  you  reall}^  are  a  professional  practitioner,  sir,  as 
Mr.  Ileadley  informs  me  ;  though,  of  course,  I  don't  doubt 
the  fact  ?  "  said  Heale,  summoning  up  all  the  little  courage 
ho  had,  to  ask  the  question  with. 

"  F.  R.  C.  S.  London,  Paris,  and  Glasgow.  Easy  enough 
to  write  and  ascertain  the  fact.  Have  been  medical  officer 
to  a  poor-law  union,  and  to  a  Rraziliaii  man-of-war.  Have 
Been  three  choleras,  two  army  fevers,  and  yellow  jack  with- 
out end.  Have  doctored  gun-shot  wounds  in  the  two  Texan 
wars,  in  one  Paris  revolution,  and  in  the  Schleswig-Holstein 
row;  beside  accident  practice  in  every  country  from  Cali 


FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND    LAGEJfD.  63 

fornia  to  China,  and  round  the  world  and  back  again. 
There  's  a  fine  nest  of  Mr.  Weekes's  friend  (if  not  crea- 
tion), Acarus  Horridus,"  and  Tom  went  on  dusting  and 
arranging. 

Heale  had  been  fairly  taken  aback  by  the  imposing  list 
01  acquirements,  and  looked  at  his  guest  a  while  with  con- 
siderable awe :  suddenly  a  suspicion  flashed  across  hiin, 
which  caused  him  (not  unseen  by  Tom)  a  start  and  a  look 
of  self-congratulatory  wisdom.  He  next  darted  out  of  the 
shop,  and  returned  as  rapidly,  rather  redder  about  the  eyes, 
and  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  But,  sir,  though,  though  "  —  began  he  —  "  but,  of 
course,  you  will  allow  me,  being  a  stranger  —  and  as  a  man 
of  business  —  all  I  have  to  say  is,  if — that  is  to  say  —  " 

"You  want  to  know  why,  if  I've  had  all  these  good 
businesses,  why  I  have  n't  kept  them  ?  " 

"Ex — exactly,"  stammered  Heale,  much  relieved. 

"  A  very  sensible  and  business-like  question  ;  but  you 
need  n't  have  been  so  delicate  about  asking  it  as  to  want  a 
Rcrew  before  beginning." 

"  Ah,  you  're  a  wag,  sir,"  keckled  the  old  man. 

"I  '11  tell  you  frankly  ;  I  have  an  old  father,  sir,  —  a  gen- 
tleman, and  a  scholar,  and  a  man  of  science  ;  once  in  as 
good  a  country  practice  as  man  could  have,  till,  God  help 
him,  he  went  blind,  sir  —  and  I  had  to  keep  him,  and  have 
still.  I  went  over  the  world  to  make  my  fortune,  and  never 
made  it ;  and  sent  him  home  what  I  did  make,  and  little 
enough  too.  At  last,  in  my  despair,  I  went  to  the  diggings, 
and  had  a  pretty  haul  —  I  need  n't  say  how  much.  That 
matters  little  now  ;  for  I  suppose  it 's  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea.  There  's  my  story,  sir,  and  a  poor  one  enough  it  is,  — • 
for  the  dear  old  man,  at  least."  And  Tom's  voice  trembled 
so,  as  he  told  it,  that  old  Heale  believed  every  word,  and, 
what  is  more,  being  —  like  most  hard  drinkers  —  not  "  un- 
used to  the  melting  mood,"  wiped  his  eyes  fervently,  and 
went  oft'  for  another  drop  of  comfort ;  while  Tom  dusted 
and  arranged  on,  till  the  shop  began  to  look  quite  smart 
and  business-like. 

"  Now,  sir  !  "  —  when  the  old  man  came  back  —  "  busi- 
ness is  business,  and  beo-o^ars  must  not  be  choosers.  I 
don't  want  to  meddle  with  your  practice  ;  I  know  the  rules 
of  the  profession  ;  but  if  you  '11  let  me  sit  here,  and  mix 
your  medicines  for  you,  you  '11  have  the  more  time  to  visit 
your  patients,  that 's  clear — and,  perhaps  (thought  he),  to 
driuk  your  brandy  and  water,  —  and  when  any  of  them  are 


64  FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND    LAGEND. 

poisoned  by  me,  it  will  be  time  to  kick  me  out.  All  I  ask 
is  bed  and  board.  Don't  be  frightened  for  your  spirit-bottle 
■ —  1  can  drink  water ;  I  've  done  it  many  a  time,  for  a  week 
together,  in  the  prairies,  and  been  thankful  for  a  half-pint  in 
the  day." 

"  But,  sir,  your  dignity  as  a  —  " 

"  Fiddlesticks,  for  dignity  I  I  must  live,  sir.  Only  lend 
me  a  couple  of  sheets  of  paper  and  two  queen's-heads,  that 
I  may  tell  my  friends  my  whereabouts,  —  and  go  and  talk  it 
over  with  Mrs.  Heale.  We  must  never  act  without  con- 
sulting the  ladies." 

That  day  Tom  sent  off  the  following  epistle  :  — 

"  To  Charles  Shuter,  Esq.,  M.  D.,  St.  Ifumpsimus's  Hospi- 
tal, London. 

"  Dear  Charley,  — 

*  I  do  adjure  thee,  by  old  pleasant  days, 
Quartier  Latin,  and  ueatly-sliod  grisettes, 
By  all  our  wanderings  in  quaint  by-ways, 
By  ancient  frolics,  and  by  ancient  debts,' 

"  Go  to  the  United  Bank  of  Australia  forthwith,  and  stop 
the  notes  whose  numbers  —  all,  alas  !  which  I  can  recollect 
■ — are  enclosed.  Next,  lend  me  five  pounds.  Next,  send 
me  down,  as  quick  as  possible,  five  pounds'  worth  of  decent 
drugs,  as  per  list ;  and  —  if  you  can  borrow  me  one  —  a 
tolerable  microscope,  and  a  few  natural  history  books,  to 
astound  the  yokels  here  with  ;  for  I  was  shipwrecked  here 
last  night,  after  all,  at  a  dirty  little  West-country  port,  and 
what's  worse,  robbed  of  all  I  had  made  at  the  diggings, 
and  start  fair,  once  more,  to  run  against  cruel  Dame  For- 
tune, as  Colson  did  against  the  Indians,  without  a  shirt  to 
my  back.  Don't  be  a  hospitable  fellow,  and  ask  me  to 
come  up  and  camp  with  you.  Mumpsimus's  and  all  old 
faces  would  be  a  great  temptation  ;  but  here  I  must  stick 
till  I  hear  of  my  money,  and  physic  the  natives  for  my 
daily  bread." 

To  his  father  he  wrote  thus,  not  having  the  heart  to  tell 
the  truth  :  — 

"  To  Edward  Thurnall,  Esq.,  M.  D.,  Whithury. 

"  My  dearest  old  Father,  — I  hope  to  see  you  again  in  a 


FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND   LAGEND.  65 

few  weeks,  as  soon  as  I  have  settled  a  little  business  here, 
where  I  have  found  a  capital  opening  for  a  medical  man. 
Meanwhile,  let  Mark  or  Mary  write  and  tell  me  how  you 
are  —  and  for  sending  you  every  penny  I  can  spare,  trust 
me.  I  have  not  had  all  the  luck  I  expected  ;  but  am  as 
hearty  as  a  bull,  and  as  merry  as  a  cricket,  and  fall  on  my 
legs,  as  of  old,  like  a  cat.  I  long  to  come  to  you ;  but  1 
must  n't  yet.  It  is  near  three  years  since  I  had  a  sight  of 
that  blessed  white  head,  which  is  the  only  thing  I  care  for 
under  the  sun,  except  Mark  and  little  Mary  —  big  Mary  I 
suppose  she  is  now,  and  engaged  to  be  married  to  some 
'  bloated  aristocrat.'  Best  remembrances  to  old  Mark 
Armsworth. 

"  Your  affectionate  son,  T.  T." 

"  Mr.  Heale,"  said  Tom  next,  "  are  we  Whigs  or  Tories 
here  ? " 

"  AVhy  —  ahem,  sir,  my  Lord  Scoutbush,  who  owns  most 
hereabouts,  and  my  Lord  Minchampstead,  who  has  bought 
Carcarrow  moors  above,  —  very  old  Whig  connections,  both 
of  them  ;  but  Mr.  Trebooze  of  Trebooze,  he,  again,  thor- 
ough-going Tory  —  very  good  patient  he  was  once,  and  may 
be  again  —  ha!  ha!  Gay  young  man,  sir  —  careless  of  his 
health  ;  so  you  see  as  a  medical  man,  sir,  —  " 

"Which  is  the  liberal  paper?  This  one?  Very  good." 
And  Tom  wrote  off  to  the  liberal  paper  that  evening  a  letter, 
which  bore  fruit  ere  the  week's  end,  in  the  shape  of  five  col- 
umns, headed  thus  :  — 

"  WRECK  OF  THE  '  HESPERUS.' 

"  The  following  detailed  account  of  this  lamentable  catas- 
trophe has  been  kindly  contributed  by  the  graphic  pen  of  the 
only  survivor,  Thomas  Thurnall,  Esquire,  F.  E.  C.  S.,  &c. 
&c.  &c.,  late  surgeon  on  board  the  ill-fated  vessel."  Which 
five  columns  not  only  put  a  couple  of  guineas  into  Tom's 
pocket,  but,  as  he  intended  they  should,  brought  him  before 
the  public  as  an  interesting  personage,  and  served  as  a  very 
good  advertisement  to  the  practice  which  Tom  had  already 
established  in  fancy. 

Tom  had  not  worked  long,  however,  before  the  coast-guard 
lieutenant  bustled  in.  He  had  trotted  home  to  shave  and 
get  his  breakfast,  and  was  trotting  back  again  to  the  shore. 

"Hill©,  Heale  !  can  I  see  the  fellow  who  was  saved  last 
night?" 

6* 


66  FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND. 

"  I  am  that  fellow,"  says  Tom. 

"The  dickens  you  arc  !  you  seem  to  have  fallen  on  youi 
legs  quickly  enough." 

"It's  a  trick  1  have  had  occasion  to  learn,  sir,"  saya 
Tom.     "  Can  1  prescribe  for  you  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Medicine  ?  "  roars  the  lieutenant,  laughing.  "  Catch 
me  at  it !  No  ;  I  want  you  to  come  down  to  the  shore, 
and  help  to  identify  goods  and  things.  The  wind  has  chopped 
up  north,  and  is  blowing  dead  on  ;  and,  with  this  tide,  we 
shall  have  a  good  deal  on  shore.  So,  if  you  're  strong 
enough  —  " 

"1  'm  always  strong  enough  to  do  my  duty,"  said  Tom. 

"Hum!  Very  good  sentiment,  young  man.  Always 
strong  enough  for  duty.  Hum  !  worthy  of  Nelson  ;  said 
pretty  much  the  same,  did  n't  he  ?  something  about  duty,  I 
know  it  was,  and  always  thought  it  uncommon  fine.  Now, 
then,  what  can  you  tell  me  about  this  business  ?  " 

It  was  a  sad  story  ;  but  no  sadder  than  hundreds  beside. 
They  had  been  struck  by  the  gale  to  the  westward  two  days 
before,  with  the  wind  south  ;  had  lost  their  foretopmast  and 
boltsprit,  and  become  all  but  unmanageable ;  had  tried 
during  a  lull  to  rig  a  jury-mast,  but  were  prevented  by  the 
gale,  which  burst  on  them  with  fresh  fury  from  the  south- 
west, with  heavy  rain  and  fog  ;  had  passed  a  light  in  the 
night,  which  they  took  for  Scilly,  but  which  must  have  been 
the  Longships  ;  had  still  ftincied  that  they  were  safe,  run- 
ning up  Channel  with  a  wide  berth,  when,  about  sunset,  the 
gale  had  chopped  again  to  the  north-west ;  —  and  Tom 
knew  no  more.  "  I  was  standing  on  the  poop  with  the  cap- 
tain about  ten  o'clock.  The  last  words  he  said  to  me  were, 
■ — '  If  this  lasts,  we  shall  see  Bi'est  harbor  to-morrow,'  when 
she  struck,  and  stopped  dead.  I  was  chucked  clean  off  the 
poop,  and  nearly  overboard  :  but  brought  up  in  the  mizzen 
rigging.  Where  the  captain  went,  poor  fellow,  Heaven 
alone  knows  ;  for  I  never  saw  him  after.  The  main-mast 
went  like  a  carrot.  The  mizzen  stood.  I  ran  round  to  the 
cabin  doors.  There  were  four  men  steering ;  the  wheel  had 
broke  out  of  the  poor  fellows'  hands,  and  knocked  them 
over,  —  broken  their  limbs,  I  believe.  I  was  stooping  to 
pick  them  up,  when  a  sea  came  into  the  waist,  and  then  aft, 
washing  me  in  through  the  saloon  doors,  among  the  poor 
half-dressed  women  and  children.  Queer  sight,  lieutenant  I 
I  've  seen  a  good  many,  but  never  worse  than  that, 
bolted  to  my  cabin,  tied  my  notes  and  gold  round  me,  and 
out  again.'' 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,   AND    LAGEND.  67 

"  Did  n't  desert  the  poor  things  ?  " 

"  Could  n't  if  I  'd  tried  ;  they  clung  to  me  like  a  swarm  of 
lees.  'Gad,  sir,  that  was  hard  lines  !  to  have  all  the  pretty 
vomen  one  had  waltzed  with  every  evening  through  the 
trades,  and  the  little  children  one  had  been  making  play- 
things for,  holding  round  one's  knees,  and  screaming  to  the 
doctor  to  save  them.  And  how  the  *  *  *  *  was  I  to  save 
them,  sir  ?"  cried  Tom,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  feeling, 
which,  as  in  so  many  Englishmen,  exploded  in  anger  to 
avoid  melting  in  tears. 

"  Ought  to  be  a  law  against  it,  sir,"  growled  the  lieuten- 
ant ;  "  against  women-folk  and  children  going  to  sea.  It 's 
murder  and  cruelty.  I  've  been  wrecked  scores  of  times  ; 
but  it  was  with  honest  men,  who  could  shift  for  themselves, 
and  if  they  were  drowned,  drowned  ;  but  did  n't  screech  and 
catch  hold  —  I  could  n't  stand  that !     Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  was  a  pretty  little  creature,  an  oflScer's 
widow,  and  two  children.  I  caught  her  under  one  arm, 
and  one  of  the  children  under  the  other  ;  said  —  '  I  can't 
take  all  at  once  ;  I  '11  come  back  for  the  rest,  one  by  one.' 
• — Not  that  I  believed  it ;  but  anything  to  stop  the  scream- 
ing; and  I  did  hope  to  put  some  of  them  out  of  the  reach  of 
the  sea,  if  I  could  get  them  forward.  I  knew  the  forecastle 
was  dry,  for  the  chief  oflScer  was  firing  there.  You  heard 
him?" 

"  Yes,  five  or  six  times ;  and  then  he  stopped  suddenly." 

"  He  had  reason.  We  got  out.  I  could  see  her  nose  up 
in  the  air  forty  feet  above  us,  covered  with  forecabin  pas- 
sengers. I  warped  the  lady  and  the  children  upward  — • 
Heaven  knows  how  ;  for  the  sea  was  breaking  over  us  very 
sharp  —  till  we  were  at  the  main-mast  stump,  and  holding 
on  by  the  wreck  of  it.  I  felt  the  ship  stagger  as  if  a  whale 
had  struck  her,  and  heard  ft  roar  and  a  swish  behind  me, 
and  looked  back,  just  in  time  to  see  the  mizzen  and  poop, 
and  all  the  poor  women  and  children  in  it,  go  bodily,  as  if 
they  had  been  shaved  off  with  a  knife.  I  suppose  that 
altered  her  balance  ;  for  before  I  could  turn  again  she  dived 
forward,  and  then  rolled  over  upon  her  beam-ends  to 
leeward  ;  and  1  saw  the  sea  walk  in  over  her  from  stem  to 
stern  like  one  white  wall,  and  I  was  washed  from  my  hold, 
and  it  was  all  over." 

"  What  became  of  the  lady  ?  " 

"I  saw  a  white  thing  flash  by  to  leeward;  —  vhat 's 
the  use  of  asking  ?  " 

"  But  the  child  you  held  ?  " 


38  FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND    LAGEND. 

"  I  did  n't  let  it  go  till  there  was  good  reason." 

"Eh?" 

Tom  tapped  the  points  of  his  fingers  smartly  against  the 
side  of  his  head,  and  then  went  on,  in  the  same  cynical 
drawl,  which  he  had  affected  throughout : 

"  I  heard  that  —  against  a  piece  of  timber  as  we  went  over- 
board. And,  as  a  medical  man,  I  considered  after  that,  that 
1  had  done  my  duty.  Pretty  little  boy  it  was,  just  six  years 
old  ;  and  such  a  fancy  for  drawing." 

The  lieutenant  was  quite  puzzled  by  Tom's  seeming  non- 
chalance. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  Did  you  leave  the  child  to 
perish  ?  " 

"  Confound  you,  sir  !  If  you  will  have  plain  English, 
here  it  is.  I  tell  you  I  heard  the  child's  skull  crack  like  an 
egg-shell !  Tliere,  let 's  talk  no  more  about  it,  or  the  whole 
matter.  It 's  a  bad  business,  and  I  'm  not  answerable  for 
it,  or  you  either  ;  so  let 's  go  and  do  what  we  are  answerable 
for,  and  identify  —  " 

"  Sir  !  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  recollect,"  said  the  lieu- 
tenant, with  ruffled  plumes. 

"  I  do  ;  I  do  !  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  I  'm 
sure,  for  being  so  rude  ;  but  you  know  as  well  as  I,  sir, 
there  are  a  good  many  things  in  the  world  which  won't 
stand  too  much  thinking  over  ;  and  last  night  was  one." 

"  Very  true,  very  true  ;  but  how  did  you  get  ashore  ?  " 

"  I  get  ashore  ?     0,  well  enough  1     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Gad,  sir,  you  were  near  enough  being  drowned  at  last  ; 
only  that  girl's  pluck  saved  you." 

"  Well  ;  but  it  did  save  me  ;  and  here  I  am,  as  I  knew  I 
should  be  when  I  first  struck  out  from  the  ship." 

"  Knew  !  —  that  is  a  bold  word  for  mortal  man  at  sea." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  ;  but  we  doctors,  you  see,  get  into  the 
way  of  looking  at  things  as  men  of  science  ;  and  the  ground 
of  science  is  experience  ;  and,  to  judge  from  experience,  it 
takes  more  to  kill  me  than  I  have  yet  met  with.  If  I  had 
been  going  to  be  snuffed  out,  it  would  have  happened  long 
ago." 

"  Hum  !  It 's  well  to  carry  a  cheerful  heart ;  but  the 
pitcher  goes  often  to  the  well,  and  comes  home  broken  at 
last." 

"  I  must  be  a  gutta-percha  pitcher,  I  think,  then,  or  else 

♦  There 's  a  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits  up  aloft,'  &c. 
aa  Dibdin  has  it.     Now,  look  at  the  facts  yourself,  sir/ 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND    LAGEND.  69 

continued  the  stranger,  with  a  recklessness  half  true,  half 
assumed  to  escape  from  the  malady  of  thought.  "  I  don't 
want  to  boast,  sir  ;  I  onl}^  want  to  show  you  that  I  have 
Bome  practical  reason  for  wearing  as  my  motto,  '  Never 
say  die.'  I  have  had  the  cholera  twice,  and  yellow-jack 
beside  ;  five  several  times  I  have  had  bullets  through  me  ; 
I  have  been  bayonetted  and  left  for  dead ;  I  have  been  ship- 
wrecked three  times  —  and  once,  as  now,  I  was  the  only 
man  who  escaped  ;  I  have  been  fatted  by  savages  for  bak- 
ing and  eating,  and  got  away  with  a  couple  of  friends  only 
a  day  or  two  before  the  feast.  One  really  narrow  chance  I 
had,  which  I  never  expected  to  squeeze  through  ;  but,  on 
the  whole,  I  have  taken  full  precautions  to  prevent  ita 
recurrence." 

"  What  was  that,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  hanged,  sir  !  "  said  the  doctor  quietly. 

"  Hanged  ?  "  cried  the  lieutenant,  facing  round  upon  his 
strange  companion  with  a  visage  which  asked  plainly 
enough  —  "  You  hanged  ?  I  don't  believe  you  ;  and  if  you 
have  been  hanged,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  get 
hanged  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  take  care  of  your  pockets,  sir,  — neither 
robbery  nor  murder  was  it  which  brought  me  to  the  gal- 
lows ;  but  innocent  bug-hunting.  The  foct  is,  I  was  caught 
by  a  party  of  Mexicans,  during  the  last  war,  straggling 
after  plants  and  insects,  and  hanged  as  a  spy.  I  don't 
blame  the  fellows  :  I  had  no  business  where  I  was  ;  and 
they  could  not  conceive  that  a  man  would  risk  his  life  for  a 
few  butterflies." 

"  But  if  you  were  hanged,  sir  — " 

"  Why  did  I  not  die  ?  —  By  my  usual  luck.  The  fellows 
were  clumsy,  and  the  noose  would  not  work  ;  so  that  the 
Mexican  doctor,  who  meant  to  dissect  me,  brought  me 
round  again  ;  and  being  a  freemason,  as  I  am,  stood  by  me, 
—  got  me  safe  off,  and  cheated  the  devil." 

The  worthy  lieutenant  walked  on  in  silence,  stealing 
furtive  glances  at  Tom,  as  if  he  had  been  a  guest  from  the 
other  world,  but  not  disbelieving  his  story  in  the  least.  He 
had  seen,  as  most  old  navy  men,  so  many  strange  things 
happen,  that  he  was  prepared  to  give  credit  to  any  tale 
when  told,  as  Tom's  was,  with  a  straightforward  and 
unboastful  simplicity. 

"There  lives  the  girl  who  saved  you,"  said  he,  as  they 
passed  Grace  Harvey's  door. 

"  Ah  !     I  ought  to  call  and  pay  my  respects." 


70  FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND   LAGEND. 

But  Grace  was  not  at  home.  The  wreck  had  emptied 
the  school  ;  and  Grace  had  gone  after  her  schoh^rs  to  the 
bcacli. 

"We  couldn't  keep  her  away,  weak  as  she  was,"  said 
a  neighbor,  "  as  soon  as  she  heard  the  poor  corpses  were 
coming  ashore." 

"Hum!"  said  Tom.  "True  woman.  Quaint, — that 
appetite  for  horrors  the  sweet  creatures  have.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  man  hanged,  lieutenant  ?  No?  If  you  had,  you 
would  have  seen  two  women  in  the  crowd  to  one  man.  Can 
you  make  out  the  philosophy  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  they  like  it,  as  some  people  do  hot  pep- 
pers." 

"Or  donkeys  thistles;  —  find  a  little  pain  pleasant!  I 
had  a  patient  once,  in  France,  who  read  Dumas's  '  Crimes 
Celebres '  all  the  week,  and  the  '  Vies  des  Saints '  on  Sun- 
days, and  both,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  for  just  the  same  pur- 
pose,—  to  see  how  miserable  people  could  be,  and  how 
much  pinching  and  pulling  they  could  bear." 

So  they  walked  on,  along  a  sheep-path,  and  over  the 
Spur,  and  down  to  the  Cove. 

It  was  such  a  morning  as  often  follows  a  gale,  when  the 
great  firmament  stares  down  upon  the  ruin  which  it  has 
made,  bright,  and  clear,  and  bold  ;  and  seems  to  say,  with 
shameless  smile,  "  There,  I  have  done  it ;  and  am  as  merry 
as  ever  after  it  all  !  "  Beneath  a  cloudless  sky,  the  break- 
ers, still  gray  and  foul  from  the  tempest,  were  tumbling  in 
before  a  cold  northern  breeze.  Half  a  mile  out  c\t  sea,  the 
rough  backs  of  the  Chough  and  Crow  loomed  black  and 
sulky  in  the  foam.  At  their  feet,  the  rocks  and  shingle  of 
the  Cove  were  alive  with  human  beings  —  groups  of  women 
and  children  clustering  round  a  corpse  or  a  chest ;  sailors, 
knee-deep  in  the  surf,  hauling  at  floating  spars  and  ropes  ; 
oil-skinned  coast-guardsmen  pacing  up  and  down  in  charge 
of  goods,  while  groups  of  fanners'  men,  who  had  hurried 
down  from  the  villages  inland,  lounged  about  on  the  top  of 
the  cliff,  looking  sulkily  on,  hoping  for  plunder  ;  and  yet 
half  afraid  to  mingle  with  the  sailors  below,  who  looked  on 
them  as  an  inferior  race,  and  refused,  in  general,  to  inter- 
marry with  them. 

The  lieutenant  plainly  held  much  the  same  opinion  ;  for 
as  a  party  of  them  tried  to  descend  the  narrow  path  to  the 
beach,  he  shouted  after  tliem  to  come  back. 

"  Eh  ?  you  won't  ?  "  and  out  rattled  from  its  scabbard  tlie 
old  worthy's  sword.    "  Come  back,  I  say,  you  loafing,  miclv 


FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND    LAGEND.  71 

iug,  wrecking  crow-keepers  !  there  are  no  pickings  for  you 
here.  Jones,  send  those  fellows  back  with  the  bayonet. 
None  but  blue-jackets  allowed  on  the  beach  !  "  And  the 
laborers  go  up  again,  grumbling. 

"  Can't  trust  those  land-sharks.  They  '11  plunder  even  the 
rings  off  a  corpse's  fingers.  They  think  every  wreck  a  god- 
send. I  've  known  them,  after  they  've  been  driven  off,  roll 
groat  stones  over  the  cliff  at  night  on  the  coast-guard,  just 
out  of  spite  ;  while  these  blue-jackets  here  —  I  can  depend 
on  them.  Can  you  tell  me  the  reason  of  that,  as  you  seem 
a  bit  of  a  philosopher  ?  " 

"  It  is  easy  enough  ;  the  sailors  have  a  fellow-feeling  with 
sailors,  and  the  landsmen  have  none.  Besides,  the  sailors 
are  finer  fellows,  body  and  soul  ;  and  the  reason  is  that  they 
have  been  brought  up  to  face  danger,  and  the  landsmen 
have  n't." 

"  Well,"  said  the  lieutenant,  "  unless  a  man  has  been 
taught  to  look  death  in  the  face,  he  never  will  grow  up,  I 
believe,  to  be  much  of  a  man  at  all." 

"Danger,  my  good  sir,  is  a  better  schoolmaster  than  all 
your  new  model  schools,  diagrams  and  scientific  apparatus. 
It  made  our  forefathers  the  masters  of  the  sea,  though  they 
never  heard  of  popular  science  ;  and  I  dare  say  could  n't, 
one  out  often  of  them,  spell  their  own  names." 

This  sentiment  elicited  from  the  lieutenant  a  grunt  of 
approbation,  as  Tom  intended  that  it  should  do  ;  shrcAvdly 
arguing  that  the  old  martinet  was  no  friend  to  the  modern 
superstition,  that  all  which  is  required  to  cast  out  the  devil 
is  a  smattering  of  the  'ologies. 

"  Will  the  gentlemen  see  the  corpses  ?  "  asked  Jones  ; 
"we  have  fourteen  already;"  —  and  he  led  the  way  to 
where,  along  the  shingle  at  high-water  mark,  lay  a  ghastly 
row,  some  fearfully  bruised  and  mutilated,  cramped  together 
by  the  death  agony  ;  others  with  the  peaceful  smile  whicli 
showed  that  they  had  sunk  to  sleep  in  that  strange  water- 
death,  amid  a  wilderness  of  pleasant  dreams.  Strong  men 
lay  there,  little  children,  women,  whom  the  sailors'  wives 
had  covered  decently  with  cloaks  and  shawls  :  and  at  their 
heads  stood  Grace  Harvey,  motionless,  with  folded  hands, 
gazing  into  the  dead  faces  with  her  great  solemn  eyes.  Hei 
mother  and  Captain  Willis  stood  by,  watching  her  with  a 
sort  of  superstitious  awe.  She  took  no  notice  either  of 
Thurnall  or  of  the  lieutenant,  as  the  doctor  identified  the 
bodies  one  by  one,  without  a  remark  which  indicated  any 
human  emotion. 


72  FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND    LAGEND. 

"  A  very  sensible  man,  Willis,"  said  the  lieutenant,  apart, 
as  Tom  knelt  a  while  to  examine  the  crushed  features  of  a 
sailor ;  and  then  looking  up,  said,  simply, 

"  James  Macg-illivray,  second  mate.    Cause  of  death,  cou  ■ 
tusions  ;  probably  by  tlic  fall  of  the  main-mast." 

"A  very  sensible  man,  and  has  seen  a  deal  of  life,  and 
kept  his  eyes  open  ;  but  a  terrible  hard-plucked  one.  Talked 
like  a  book  to  me  all  the  way  ;  but,  be  hanged  if  I  don't  think 
he  has  a  thirty-two  pound  shot  under  his  ribs  instead  of  a 
heart.  Doctor  Thurnall,  that  is  Miss  Harvey,  — the  young 
person  who  saved  your  life  last  night." 

Tom  rose,  took  off  his  hat  (Frank  Headley's),  and  made 
her  a  bow,  of  which  an  ambassador  need  not  have  been 
ashamed. 

"I  am  exceedingly  shocked  that  Miss  Ilarvey  should 
have  run^so  much  danger  for  anything  so  worthless  as  my 
life  !  " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  answered,  not  him,  but  her 
own  thoughts. 

"  Strange,  is  it  not,  that  it  was  a  duty  to  pray  for  all 
these  poor  things  last  night,  and  a  sin  to  pray  for  them  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  Grace,  dear  !  "  interposed  her  mother,  "don't  you  hear 
the  gentleman  thanking  you  ?  " 

She  started,  as  one  awaking  out  of  a  dream,  and  looked 
into  his  face,  blushing  scarlet. 

"  Good  heavens,  what  a  beautiful  creature  !  "  said  Tom  to 
himself,  as  a  quite  new  emotion  passed  through  him.  Quite 
new  it  was,  whatsoever  it  was  ;  and  he  was  aware  of  it.  He 
had  had  his  passions,  his  intrigues,  in  past  years,  and  prided 
himself —  few  men  more  —  on  understanding  women  ;  but 
the  expression  of  the  face,  and  the  strange  words  with  which 
she  had  greeted  him,  added  to  the  broad  fact  of  her  having 
offered  her  own  life  for  his,  raised  in  him  a  feeling  of  chival- 
rous awe  and  admiration,  which  no  other  woman  had  ever 
called  up. 

"Madam,"  he  said  again,  "I  can  repay  you  with  noth- 
ing but  thanks  ;  but,  to  judge  from  your  conduct  last  night, 
you  are  one  of  those  people  who  will  find  reward  enough  in 
knowing  +hat  you  have  done  a  noble  and  heroic  action." 

She  looked  at  him  very  steadfastly,  blushing  still.  Thur- 
nall. be  it  understood,  was  (at  least,  while  his  face  was  in 
the  state  in  which  Heaven  intended  it  to  be,  half  hidden  in  a 
silky-brown  beard)  a  very  good-looking  fellow  ;  and  (to  use 
Mark  Armsworth's  description),  "  as  hard  as  a  nail ;  as  fresh 


FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,   AND   LAGEND.  73 

as  a  rose  ;  and  stood  on  his  legs  like  a  game-cock."  More- 
over, as  Willis  said  approvingly,  he  had  spoken  to  her  "as 
if  he  was  a  duke,  and  she  was  a  duchess."  Besides,  by 
some  blessed  moral  law,  the  surest  way  to  make  one's  self 
love  any  human  being  is  to  go  and  do  him  a  kindness  ;  and 
therefore  Grace  had  already  a  tender  interest  in  Tom,  not 
because  he  had  saved  her,  but  she  him.  And  so  it  was 
that  a  strange  new  emotion  passed  through  her  heart  also, 
though  so  little  understood  by  her,  that  slie  put  it  forthwith 
into  words. 

"  You  might  repay  me,"  she  said,  in  a  sad  and  tender 
tone. 

"  You  have  only  to  command  me,"  said  Tom,  wincing  a 
little  as  the  words  passed  his  lips. 

"  Then  turn  to  God,  now  in  the  day  of  his  mercies.  Un- 
less you  have  turned  to  him  already." 

One  glance  at  Tom's  rising  eyebrows  told  her  what  he 
thought  upon  those  matters. 

She  looked  at  him  sadly,  lingeringly,  as  if  conscious  that 
she  ought  not  to  look  too  long,  and  yet  unable  to  withdraw 
her  eyes.  "  Ah  !  and  such  a  precious  soul  as  yours  must 
be;  a  precious  soul  —  all  taken,  and  you  alone  left!  God 
must  have  high  things  in  store  for  you.  He  must  have  a 
great  work  for  you  to  do.  Else,  why  are  you  not  as  one  of 
th-ese  ?  0,  think  !  where  would  you  have  been  at  this  mo- 
ment if  God  had  dealt  with  you  as  with  them  ?  " 

"  Where  1  am  now,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  quietly. 

"  Where  you  are  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  where  I  ought  to  be.  I  am  where  I  ought  to  be 
now.  I  suppose,  if  I  had  found  myself  anywhere  else  this 
morning,  I  should  have  taken  it  as  a  sign  that  I  was  wanted 
there,  and  not  here." 

Grace  heaved  a  sigh  at  words  which  were  certainly  start- 
ling. The  Stoic  optimism  of  the  world-hardened  doctor  was 
new  and  frightful  to  her. 

"  My  good  madam,"  said  ho,  "  the  part  of  Scripture 
which  I  appreciate  best,  just  now,  is  the  case  of  poor  Job, 
where  Satan  has  leave  to  rob  and  torment  him  to  the  utmost 
of  his  wicked  will,  provided  only  he  does  not  touch  his  life. 
I  wish,"  he  went  on,  lowering  his  voice,  "  to  tell  you  some 
thing  which  I  do  not  wish  puhlicl}''  talked  of,  but  in  whicn 
you  may  help  me.  I  had  nearl;^'  fifteen  hundred  pounds 
about  me  when  1  came  asliore  last  night,  sewed  in  a  belt 
r'jund  my  waist.     It  is  gone.     That  is  all." 

Tom  looked   steadily  at  her  as  he   spoke.     She  turned 
T 


74  yLOTSOM,   JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND. 

pale,  red,  pale  again,  her  lips  quivered,  but  she  spoke  no 
word. 

"She  has  it,  as  1  live!"  thought  Tom  to  himself. 
"'Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman!'  The  canting,  little, 
methodistical  humbug  !  She  must  have  slipped  it  oft"  my 
waist  as  I  lay  senseless.  I  suppose  she  means  to  keep  it 
ir  pawn  till  I  redeem  it  by  marrying  her.  Well,  I  might 
take  an  uglier  mate,  certainly  ;  but,  when  I  do  enter  into 
the  bitter  bonds  of  matrimony,  I  should  like  to  be  sure, 
beforehand,  that  my  wife  was  not  a  thief!  " 

Why,  then,  did  not  Tom,  if  he  were  so  vorj  sure  of 
Grace's  having  the  belt,  charge  her  with  the  theft?  Be- 
cause he  had  found  out  already  how  popular  she  was,  ana 
was  afraid  of  merely  making  himself  unpopular  ;  because, 
too,  he  took  for  gi'anted  that  whosoever  had  his  belt  had 
hidden  it  alread}"-  beyond  the  reach  of  a  search-warrant ; 
and  because,  after  all,  an  honorable  shame  restrained  him. 
It  would  be  a  poor  return  to  the  woman  who  had  saved  his 
life  to  charge  her  with  theft  the  next  morning  ;  and,  more, 
there  was  something  about  that  girl's  face  which  made  him 
feel  that,  if  he  had  seen  her  put  the  belt  into  her  pocket 
before  his  eyes,  he  could  not  find  the  heart  to  have  sent  her 
to  jail.  "  No  !  "  thought  he  ;  "  I  '11  get  it  out  of  her,  or 
whoever  has  it,  and  stay  here  till  I  do  get  it.  One  place  is 
as  good  as  another  to  me." 

But  what  was  Grace  saying  ? 

She  had  turned,  after  two  or  three  minutes'  astonished 
silence,  to  her  mother  and  Captain  Willis  : 

"  Belt !  Mother  !  Uncle  !  What  is  this  ?  The  gentle- 
man has  lost  a  belt !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  —  a  belt?  Well,  child,  that's  not  much  to 
grieve  over,  when  the  Lord  has  spared  his  life  and  soul 
from  the  pit !  "  said  her  mother,  somewhat  testily. 

"  You  don't  understand.  A  belt,  I  say,  full  of  money  — 
fifteen  hundred  pounds ;  he  lost  it  last  night.  Uncle  I 
speak,  quick  !     Did  you  see  a  belt  ?  " 

Willis  shook  his  head  meditatively.  "  I  don't,  and  yet  I 
do,  and  yet  1  don't  again.  My  brains  were  well-nigh 
washed  out  of  me,  I  know.  However,  sir,  I  '11  think,  ami 
talk  it  over  with  you  too  ;  for  if  it  be  in  the  village,  iound 
it  ought  to  be,  and  will  be,  with  God's  help." 

"  Found  ?  "  cried  Grace,  in  so  high  a  key  that  Tom  en- 
treated her  to  calm  herself,  and  not  make  the  matter  public. 
"Found?  yes;  and  shall  be  found,  if  there  be  justice  in 
heaven.     Shame,  that  West-country  folk  should  turn  rob- 


FLOTSOM,    JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND.  75 

oers  and  wreckers  !  Mariners,  too,  and  mariners'  wives, 
who  should  be  praying  for  those  who  are  wandering  far 
away,  each  man  with  his  life  in  his  hand  !  Ah,  what  a 
world  !  When  will  it  end  ?  soon,  too  soon,  when  West 
countr}''  folk  rob  shipwrecked  men  !  But  you  will  find  3'our 
belt ;  yes,  sir,  you  will  find  it.  Wait,  till  you  have  learnt 
to  do  without  it.  Man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone.  Do 
you  think  he  lives  by  gold  ?  Only  be  patient  ;  and,  when 
you  are  worthy  of  it,  you  shall  find  it  again,  in  the  Lord's 
good  time." 

To  the  doctor  this  seemed  a  mere  burst  of  jargon,  invented 
for  the  purpose  of  hiding  guilt ;  and  his  faith  in  womankind 
was  not  heightened  when  ho  heard  Grace's  mother  say, 
sotto  voce,  to  Willis,  that  "  In  wrecks,  and  fires,  and  such 
like,  a  many  people  complained  of  having  lost  more  than 
ever  they  had." 

"  0  ho  !  my  old  lady,  is  that  the  way  the  fox  is  gone  ?  " 
quoth  Tom  to  that  trusty  counsellor,  himself,  and  began 
carefully  scrutinizing  Mrs.  Harvey's  face.  It  had  been 
very  handsome  ;  it  was  still  very  clever  ;  but  the  eyebrows, 
crushed  together  downwards  above  her  nose,  and  rising 
high  at  the  outer  corners,  indicated,  as  surely  as  the  rest- 
less down-dropt  eye,  a  character  self-conscious,  furtive, 
capable  of  great  inconsistencies,  possibly  of  great  deceits. 

"  You  don't  look  me  in  the  face,  old  lady  !  "  quoth  Tom 
to  himself.  "  Very  well !  between  ysu  two  it  lies  ;  unless 
that  old  gentleman  implicates  himself  also,  in  his  approach- 
ing confession." 

He  took  his  part  at  once.  "  Well,  well,  you  will  oblige 
me  by  saying  nothing  more  about  it.  After  all,  as  this 
good  lady  says,  the  loss  of  a  little  money  is  not  worth  com- 
plaining over,  when  one  has  escaped  with  life.  Good  morn- 
ing ;  and  many  thanks  for  all  your  kindness  !  " 

And  Tom  made  another  grand  bow,  and  went  off  to  the 
lieutenant. 

Grace  looked  after  him  a  while,  as  one  stunned.,  and  then 
turned  to  her  mother. 

"  Let  us  go  home." 

"  Go  home  ?     Why  there,  dear  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go  home  ;  3''ou  need  not  come.  I  am  sick  of 
this  world.  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  misery  and  death 
(and  she  pointed  to  the  row  of  corpses),  but  we  must  have 
sin,  too,  wherever  we  turn?  Meanness,  and  theft,  —  and 
ingratitude,  too  !  "  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

She  went  homeward  ;  her  mother,  in  spite  of  her  entreat- 


76  FLOTSOiM,    JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND. 

les,  accompanied  her  ;  and,  lor  some  I'eason   or  other,  did 
not  hjse  sig-ht  oflicr  all  that  day,  or  lor  several  days  alter. 

Meanwhile,  Willis  had  beckoned  the  doctor  aside.  Ilia 
face  was  serious  and  sad,  and  his  lips  were  trembling. 

"  This  is  a  very  shocking  business,  sir.  Of  course,  you  've 
told  the  lieutenant." 

"  ^ot  yet,  my  good  sir." 

"  But  —  excuse  my  boldness;  what  plainer  way  of  get- 
ting it  back  from  the  rascal,  whoever  he  is  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  while,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  have  my  reasons." 

"  But,  sir,  for  the  honor  of  the  place,  the  matter  should 
be  cleared  up  ;  and,  till  tht;  thief's  found,  suspicion  will  lie 
on  a  dozen  innocent  men  ;  myself  among  the  rest,  for  that 
matter." 

"  You  ?  "  said  Tom,  smiling.  "  I  don't  know  who  I  have 
the  honor  to  speak  to  ;  but  you  don't  look  much  like  a  gen- 
tleman who  wishes  for  a  trip  to  Botany  Bay." 

The  old  man  chuckled,  and  then  his  face  dropped  again. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  take  the  thing  so  like  a  man,  sir  ;  but  it 
is  really  no  laughing  matter.  It 's  a  scoundrelly  job,  only 
fit  for  a  Maltee  oft'  the  Nix  Mangeery.  If  it  had  been  a  lot 
of  those  carter  fellows  that  had  carried  you  up,  1  could 
have  understood  it  ;  wrecking  's  born  in  the  bone  of  them  ; 
but  for  those  four  sailors  that  carried  you  up,  'gad,  sir  ! 
they  'd  have  been  shot  sooner.  I  've  known  'em  from 
bo3''s  !  "  and  the  old  man  spoke  quite  fiercely,  and  looked 
up,  his  lip  trembling,  and  his  eye  moist. 

"  There  's  no  doubt  that  you  are  honest,  whoever  is  not," 
thought  Tom  ;  so  he  ventured  a  further  question. 

"  Then  you  were  by  all  the  while  ?  " 
■    "  All   the  while  ?     Who   more  ?     And  that 's  just  what 
puz7-les  me." 

"Fray  don't  speak  loud,"  said  Tom.  "1  have  my  rea- 
sons for  keeping  things  quiet." 

"  I  tell  you,  sir.  I  held  the  maid,  and  big  John  Beer 
(Gentleman  Jan  they  call  him)  held  me,  and  the  maid  had 
both  her  hands  tight  in  your  belt.  I  saw  it  as  plain  as  1 
see  you,  just  before  the  wave  covered  us,  though  little  1 
thought  what  was  in  it  ;  and  should  never  have  remcni- 
bered  you  had  a  belt  at  all,  if  1  hadn't  thought  over  things 
in  the  last  five  minutes." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  lucky  in  having  come  straight  to  the 
fountain-head,  and  must  thank  you  for  telling  me  so  frankly 
what  you  know." 

"Tell  you,  sii  ?     What  else  should  one  do  but  tell  your 


FLOTSOM.    JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND.  77 

I  only  wish  I  knew  more,  and  more  I  '11  know,  please  the 
Lord.  And  3'oa  '11  excuse  an  old  sailor  (though  not  of  your 
rank,  sir)  saying  that  he  wonders  a  little  that  3'ou  don't 
take  the  plain  means  of  knowing  more  yourself." 

"May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  your  name?"  said 
Tom,  who  saw  by  this  time  that  the  old  man  was  worthy  of 
his  confidence. 

"  Willis,  at  your  service,  sir.  Captain  they  call  me, 
though  I  'm  none.  Sailing-master  I  was,  on  board  of  his 
majesty's  ship  Niobe,  eighty-four  ;  "  and  Willis  raised  his 
hat  with  such  an  air,  that  Tom  raised  his  in  return. 

"  Then,  Captain  Willis,  let  me  have  five  words  with 
you  apart ;  first  thanking  you  for  having  helped  to  save 
my  life." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  I  did,  sir  ;  and  thanked  God  for  it  on  my 
knees  this  morning.  But  you'll  excuse  me,  sir;  I  was 
thinking  —  and  no  blame  tome  —  more  of  saving  mj'^  poor 
maid's  life  than  yours,  and  no  offence  to  you,  for  I  hadn't 
the  honor  of  knowing  you  ;  but  for  her  I  'd  have  been 
drowned  a  dozen  times  over." 

"No  offence,  indeed,"  said  Tom  ;  and  hardly  knew  what 
to  say  next.  "  May  1  ask,  is  she  your  niece  ?  1  heard  her 
call  you  uncle." 

"  0  no,  no  relation  ;  only  I  look  on  her  as  my  own,  poor 
thing,  having  no  father ;  and  she  always  calls  me  uncle,  as 
most  do  us  old  men  in  the  West." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "  you  will  answer  for  nona 
of  the  four  sailors  having  robbed  me  ?  " 

"  I  've  said  it,  sir." 

"  Was  any  one  else  close  to  her  when  we  were  brought 
ashore  ?  " 

"  No  one  but  I.     I  brought  her  round  myself." 

"  And  who  took  her  home  ?  " 

"  Her  mother  and  I." 

"  Very  good.  And  you  never  saw  the  belt  after  she  liad 
her  hands  in  it  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  'm  sure  not." 

"  Was  her  mother  by  her  when  she  was  lying  on  the 
rock?" 

"  No  ;  came  up  afterwards,  just  as  I  got  her  on  her 
feet." 

"  Humph  !     What  sort  of  a  character  is  her  mother  ?  " 

"  0,  a  tidy.  God-fearing  person,  enough.  One  of  these 
Methodist  class-leaders,  Brianites  they  call  themselves.  I 
don't  hold  with  them,  though  1  do  go  to  chapel  at  whiles  ; 


rS  FLOTSOM,   JETSOM,    AND    LAG  END. 

but  there  are  good  ones  simong'  them  ;  and  I  do  believe 
she  's  one,  though  slie  's  a  little  fretful  at  times.  Keeps  a 
little  shop  that  don't  pa}'  over  well  ;  and  those  preachera 
live  on  her  a  good  deal,  I  think.  Creeping  into  widows' 
houses,  and  making  long  praj'ers  —  you  know  the  text." 

"  Well,  now,  Captain  Willis,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings  ;  but  do  y{m  not  see  that  one  of  two  things  I  must 
believe,  —  either  that  the  belt  was  torn  off  my  waist,  and 
washed  back  into  the  sea,  as  it  may  have  been,  after  all  ;  or 
else,  that  —  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  took  it  ?  "  asked  Willis,  in  a  voice 
of  such  indignant  astonishment  that  Tom  could  only  answer 
by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Who  else  could  have  done  so,  on  your  own  show- 
ing ?  " 

"Sir!"  said  Willis,  slowly.  "I  thought  I  had  to  do 
with  a  gentleman  ;  but  I  have  my  doubts  of  it  now.  A  poor 
girl  risks  her  life  to  drag  you  out  of  that  sea,  which  but 
for  her  would  have  hove  your  body  up  to  lie  along  with 
that  line  there,"  —  and  Willis  pointed  to  the  ghastly  row, 
—  "  and  your  soul  gone  to  give  in  its  last  account !  —  you 
only  know  what  that  would  have  been  like,  —  and  the  hrst 
thing  you  do  in  payment  is  to  accuse  her  of  robbing  you  — 
her,  that  the  very  angels  in  heaven,  I  believe,  are  glad  to 
keep  company  with  ;  "  and  the  old  man  turned  and  paced 
the  beach  in  fierce  excitement. 

"Captain  Willis,"  said  Tom,  "I'll  trouble  you  to  listen 
patiently  and  civilly  to  me  a  minute." 

Willis  stopped,  drew  himself  up,  and  touched  his  hat 
mechanically. 

"  Just  because  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  have  not  accused 
her  ;  but  hold  my  tongue,  and  spoken  to  j'ou  in  confidence. 
Now,  perhaps,  j^ou  will  understand  why  I  have  said  noth- 
ing to  the  lieutenant." 

Willis  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  see  now,  and  I'm  sorry  if 
[  was  rude  ;  but  it  took  me  aback,  and  does  still.  I  tell 
you,  sir,"  quoth  he,  warming  again,  "  whatever 's  true, — 
that 's  false.  You  're  wrong  there,  if  you  never  are  wrong 
again  ;  and  you  '11  say  so  yourself,  before  you  've  known 
her  a  week.  No,  sir  !  If  you  could  make  me  believe  that, 
I  should  never  believe  in  goodness  again  on  earth  ;  but 
iiold  all  men,  and  womec,  too,  and  those  above,  for  aught  1 
know,  that  are  greater  than  men  and  women,  for  liars 
together." 


•  FLOTSOM,    JETSOM,    AND    LAGEND.  79 

What  was  to  be  answered  ?  Perhaps  only  what  Tom  did 
answer . 

"  My  good  sir,  I  will  say  no  more.  I  would  not  have 
said  that  much  if  I  had  thought  I  should  have  pained  you 
so.  I  suppose  that  the  belt  was  washed  into  the  sea.  Why 
not?" 

"  Why  not,  indeed,  sir  ?  That's  a  much  more  Christian- 
like way  of  looking  at  it,  than  to  blacken  j'our  own  soul 
before  God  by  suspecting  that  sweet,  innocent  creature." 

'*  Be  it  so,  then.  Only  say  nothing  about  the  matter  ; 
and  beg  them  to  say  nothing.  If  it  be  jammed  among  the 
rocks,  —  as  it  might  be,  heavy  as  it  is,  —  talking  about  it 
will  only  set  people  looking  for  it ;  and  I  suppose  there  is 
a  man  or  two,  even  in  Aberalva,  who  would  find  fifteen 
hundred  pounds  a  tempting  bait.  If,  again,  some  one  finds 
it,  and  makes  away  with  it,  he  will  only  be  the  more  careful 
to  hide  it  if  he  knows  that  I  am  on  the  look-out.  So  just 
tell  Miss  Harvey  and  her  mother  that  I  think  it  must  have 
been  lost,  and  beg  them  to  keep  my  secret.  And  now  shake 
hands  with  me." 

"  The  best  plan,  I  believe,  though  bad  is  the  best,"  said 
Willis,  holding  out  his  hand  ;  and  he  walked  away  sadly. 
His  spirit  had  been  altogether  ruffled  by  the  imputation  on 
Grace's  character  ;  and  besides,  the  chances  of  Thurnall's 
recovei'ing  his  money  seemed  to  him  very  small. 

In  five  minutes  he  returned. 

"If  you  would  allow  me,  sir,  there's  a  man  there  of 
whom  I  should  like  to.  ask  one  question.  He  who  held  me, 
and,  after  that,  helped  to  carry  you  up  ;  and  he  pointed  to 
Gentleman  Jan,  who  stood,  dripping  from  the  waist  down- 
ward, over  a  chest  which  he  had  just  secured.  "Just  let 
us  ask  him,  oflF-hand  like,  whether  you  had  a  belt  on  when 
he  carried  you  up.  You  may  trust  him,  sir.  He  'd  knock 
you  down  as  soon  as  look  at  you  ;  but  tell  a  lie,  never." 

They  went  to  the  giant  ;  and,  after  cordial  salutations, 
Tom  propounded  his  question  carelessly,  with  something 
like  a  white  lie. 

"  It 's  no  great  matter  ;  but  it  was  an  old  friend,  you  see, 
with  fittings  for  my  knife  and  pistols,  and  I  should  be  glad 
to  find  it  again." 

Jan  thrust  his  red  hand  through  his  black  curls,  and  med- 
itated while  the  water  surged  round  his  ankles. 

"  Never  a  belt  seed  I,  sir;  leastwise  while  you  were  in 
my  hands.  I  had  you  round  the  waist  all  the  way  up,  so 
no  one  could  have  took  it  off.     Why  should  they  ?     And  1 


80  FLOTSOM,    JETSOM,    AND    L-AGEND. 

undressed  you  myself;  and  nothing',  save  your  presence, 
was  there  to  get  ofi",  but  jersey  and  trousers,  and  a  lump 
of  backy  against  your  skin,  that  looked  the  right  sort." 

"  Have  some,  then,"  said  Tom,  pulling  out  the  honey 
dew.  "As  for  the  belt,  1  suppose  it's  gone  to  choke  tho 
dog-fish." 

And  there  the  matter  ended,  outwardly,  at  least;  but 
only  outwardly.  Tom  had  his  own  opinion,  gathered  from 
Gra'^e's  seemingly  guilty  face,  and  to  it  he  \ni\d,  ami  called 
old  Willis,  in  his  heart,  a  simple-minded  old  dotard,  wlio 
had  been  taken  in  by  her  hypocrisy. 

And  Tom  accompanied  the  lieutenant  on  his  dreary  er- 
rand that  day,  and  several  days  after,  through  depositions 
before  a  justice,  interviews  with  Lloyd's  underwriters,  and 
all  the  sad  details  which  follow  a  wreck.  Ere  the  week's 
end,  forty  bodies  and  more  had  been  recovered,  and  brought 
up,  ten  or  twelve  at  a  time,  to  the  church-3'ard,  and  upon  tlie 
down,  and  laid  side  by  side  in  one  long,  shallow  pit,  where 
Frank  Headley  read  over  them  the  blessed  words  of  hope, 
amid  the  sobs  of  women  and  the  grand  silence  of  stalwart 
men,  who  knew  not  how  soon  their  turn  might  come  ;  and 
after  each  pi'ocession  came  Grace  Harvey,  with  all  her  little 
scholars  two  and  two,  to  listen  to  the  funeral  service  ;  and, 
when  the  last  corpse  was  buried,  the}'-  planted  flowers  upon 
the  mound,  and  went  their  waj'^  again  to  learn  their  hymns 
and  read  their  Bible, — little  ministering  angels,  to  whom, 
as  to  most  sailoi's'  children,  death  was  too  common  a  sight 
to  have  in  it  aught  of  hideous  or  strange. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  the  good  ship  Hesperus,  and  all 
her  gallant  crew. 

Verily,  however  important  the  mere  animal  lives  of  men 
may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  at  times,  in  our  eyes,  they  never 
have  been  so,  to  judge  from  floods  and  earthquakes,  pesti- 
lence and  storm,  in  the  eyes  of  Him  who  made  and  lovi.'a 
us  all.  It  is  a  strange  fact :  better  for  us,  instead  of  shut- 
ting our  eyes  to  it  because  it  interferes  with  our  modern 
tenderness  of  pain,  to  ask  honestly  what  it  means. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE   WAY    TO    WIN    THEM. 

So,  for  a  week  or  more,  Tom  went  on  thrivingly  enoiigK 
and  became  a  general  favorite  in  the  town.  Ileale  had  nc 
reason  to  complain  of  boarding  him  ;  for  he  had  dinner  and 
supper  thrust  on  him  every  day  by  one  and  another,  who 
was  glad  enough  to  have  him  for  the  sake  of  his  stories,  and 
songs,  and  endless  fun  and  good-humor.  The  lieutenant, 
above  all,  took  the  new  comer  under  his  especial  patronage, 
and  was  paid  for  his  services  in  some  of  Tom's  incompara- 
ble honey-dew.  The  old  fellow  soon  found  that  the  doctor 
knew  more  than  one  old  foreign  station  of  his,  and  ended  by 
pouring  out  to  him  his  ancient  wrongs,  and  the  evil  de;il- 
ings  of  the  wicked  admiral ;  all  of  wliich  Tom  heard  with 
deepest  sympathy,  and  surprise  that  so  much  naval  talent 
had  remained  unappreciated  by  the  unjust  upper  powers  ; 
and  the  lieutenant,  of  course,  reported  of  him  accordingly 
to  Heale. 

"  A  very  civil-spoken  and  intelligent  youngster,  Mr. 
Heale,  d'ye  see,  to  my  mind  ;  and  you  can't  do  better  than 
accept  his  offer ;  for  you  '11  find  him  a  great  help,  especially 
among  the  ladies,  d'  ye  see.  They  like  a  good-looking  young 
chap,  eh,  Mrs.  Jones  ?  " 

On  the  fourth  day,  by  good  fortune,  what  should  come 
ashore  but  Tom's  own  chest  —  money-less,  alas!  but  with 
many  useful  matters  still  unspoilt  by  salt-water.  So,  all 
went  well,  and,  indeed,  somewhat  too  well  (if  Tom  would 
have  let  it),  in  the  case  of  Miss  Anna  Maria  Heale,  the 
doctor's  daughter. 

She  was  just  such  a  girl  as  her  father's  daughter  was 
likely  to  be  ;  a  short,  stout,  rosy,  pretty  body  of  twenty, 
with  loose,  red  lips,  thwart  black  eyebrows,  and  right 
naughty  eyes  under  them  :  of  which  Tom  took  good  heed  ; 
for  Miss  Heale  was  exceedingly  inclined,  he  saw,  to  make 
use  of  them  in  his  behoof.  Let  others,  who  have  experience 
in  and  taste  for  such  matters,  declare  how  she  set  her  cap 
at  the  dapper  young  surgeon  ;  how  she  rushed  into  the  shop 

rsi) 


82  THE   WAY   TO    WIN    THEM. 

with  sweet  abandon  ten  times  a-clay,  to  find  her  father 
and,  not  finding  him,  giggled,  and  blushed,  and  shook  her 
shoulders,  and  retired,  to  peep  at  Tom  through  the  glass 
door  which  led  into  tlie  parlor ;  how  she  discovered  that 
tlie  muslin  curtain  of  the  said  door  would  get  out  of  ordei 
every  ten  minutes  ;  and  at  last  called  Mr.  Thurnall  to  assisl 
her  in  reilrranging' it ;  how,  bolder  grown,  she  came  into 
tlie  shop  to  help  herself  to  various  matters,  inquiring  ten- 
derly for  Tom's  health,  and  giggling  vulgar  sentiments 
about  "absent  friends,  and  hearts  left  behind  ;"  in  the  hope 
of  fishing  out  whether  Tom  had  a  sweetheart  or  not.  How, 
at  last,  she  was  minded  to  confide  her  own  health  to  Tom, 
and  to  install  him  as  her  private  physician  ;  yea,  and  would 
have  made  him  feel  her  pulse  on  the  spot,  had  he  not  luck- 
ily found  some  assafoetida,  and  therewith  so  perfumed  the 
shop,  that  her  "nerves  "  (of  which  she  was  always  talking, 
tliough  she  had  nerves  onl}'  in  the  sense  wherein  a  sirloin 
of  beef  has  them)  forced  her  to  beat  a  retreat. 

But  she  returned  again  to  the  charge  next  day,  and 
rushed  bravely  through  that  fearful  smell,  cleaver  in  hand, 
as  the  carrier  set  down  at  the  door  a  huge  box,  carriage- 
paid,  all  the  way  from  London,  and  directed  to  Thomas 
Thurnall,  Esquire.  She  would  help  to  open  it ;  and  so'  she 
did,  while  old  Heale  and  his  wife  stood  by  curious, — he 
with  a  maudlin  wonder  and  awe  (for  he  regarded  Tom 
already  as  an  altogether  awful  and  incomprehensible  "par- 
ty"), and  Mrs.  Ileale,  with  a  look  of  incredulous  scorn,  as 
if  she  expected  the  box  to  be  a  mere  sham,  filled,  probably, 
witli  shavings.  For  (from  reasons  best  known  to  herself) 
she  had  never  looked  pleasantly  on  the  arrangement  which 
entrusted  to  Tom  the  care  of  the  bottles.  She  had  given 
way  from  motives  of  worldly  prudence,  even  of  necessity  ; 
for  Heale  had  been  for  the  greater  part  of  the  week  quite 
incapable  of  attending  to  his  business  ;  but  black  envy  and 
spite  were  seetliing  in  her  foolish  heart,  and  seethed  more 
and  more  fiercely  when  she  saw  that  the  box  did  not  con- 
tain shavings,  but  valuables  of  every  sort  and  kind,  drugs, 
instnunents,  a  large  microscope  (which  Tom  delivered  out 
ol'iMiss  Ibiale's  I'at,  clumsy  fingers  only  by  strong  warnings 
that  it  would  go  oiF  and  shoot  her),  books  full  of  prints  of 
unspeakable  monsters  ;  and,  finally,  a  little  packet,  contiiin- 
ing,  not  one  five-pound  note,  but  four,  and  a  letter  whicli 
Tom,  after  perusing,  put  into  Mr.  Ileale's  hands,  with  a 
look  of  honest  pride. 

The  Mumpsimus  men,  it  appeared,  had  "sent  round  the 


THE    WAY    TO    WIN   THEM.  83 

hat"  for  him,  and  here  were  the  results  ;  and  they  would 
send  the  hat  round  again  every  month,  if  he  wanted  it ;  or, 
if  he  would  come  up,  board,  lodge,  and  wash  him  gratis 
The  great  Doctor  Bellairs,  House  Physician,  and  Carver, 
the  famous  operator  (names  at  which  Heale  bowed  his  head 
and  worshipped),  sent  compliments,  condolences,  ofCers  of 
employment  —  never  was  so  triumphant  a  testimonial  ;  and 
Heale,  in  his  simplicity,  thought  himself  (a&  indeed  he  was) 
the  luckiest  of  country  doctors  ;  while  Mrs.  Heale,  after 
swelling  and  choking  for  five  minutes,  tottered  into  the 
back  room,  and  cast  herself  on  the  sofa  in  violent  hysterics. 

As  she  came  round  again,  Tom  could  not  but  overhear 
a  little  that  passed.  And  this  he  overheard  among  other 
matters  : 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Heale,  I  see,  I  see  too  well,  which  your  natural 
blindness,  sir,  and  that  fatal  easiness  of  temper,  will  bring 
you  to  a  premature  grave  within  the  paupers'  precincts, 
and  this  young  designing  infidel,  with  his  science,  and  his 
magrn'fiers,  and  his  callipers,  and  philosophy  falsely  so 
called,  which  in  our  true  Protestant  youth  there  was  none, 
nor  needed  none,  to  supplant  you  in  your  old  age,  and  take 
the  bread  out  of  your  gray  hairs,  which  he  will  bring  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  mine  likewise,  which  am  like  my 
poor  infant  here,  of  only  too  sensitive  sensibilities  !  0, 
Anna  Maria,  my  child,  my  poor  lost  child  !  which  I  can  feel 
for  the  tenderness  of  the  inexperienced  heart !  My  Virgin 
Eve,  when  the  serpent  has  entered  into  your  youthful  para- 
dise, and  you  will  find,  alas  !  too  late,  that  you  have  warmed 
an  adder  into  your  bosom  !  " 

"  0,  ma,  how  indelicate  !  "  giggled  Anna  Maria,  evi- 
dently not  displeased.  "If  you  don't  mind  he  will  hear 
you,  and  I  should  never  be  able  to  look  him  in  the  face 
again."    And  therewith  she  looked  round  to  the  glass  door. 

What  more  passed,  Tom  did  not  choose  to  hear  ;  for  he 
began  making  all  the  bustle  he  could  in  the  shop,  merely 
saying  to  himself : 

"That  flood  of  eloquence  is  symptomatic  enough:  I'll 
lay  my  life  the  old  dame  knows  her  way  to  the  laudanum 
bottle." 

Tom's  next  business  was  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the 
young  curate.  He  had  found  out  already,  cunning  fellow, 
that  any  extreme  intimacy  with  Headley  would  not  increase 
his  general  popularity  ;  and,  as  we  have  seen  already,  he 
bore  no  great  affection  to  "the  cloth"  in  general ;  but  the 
curate  was  an  educated   gentleman,  and  Tom  wished  for 


84  THE    WAY   TO    WIN    THEM. 

some  more  rational  conversation  tlian  that  of  the  lieutenant 
and  Ileale.  Besides,  he  was  one  of  those  men  with  whom 
the  possession  of  power,  sought  at  first  froni  self-interest, 
has  become  a  passion,  a  species  of  sporting-,  which  he  fol- 
hjws  for  its  own  sake.  To  wliomsoever  he  met  he  must 
needs  apply  the  moral  stethoscope  ;  sound  him,  lungs, 
heart,  and  liver  ;  put  his  tissues  under  the  microscope,  and 
try  conclusions  on  liiin  to  the  uttermost.  They  might  be 
useful  hereafter,  —  for  knowledge  was  power,  —  or  they 
miglit  not.  What  matter  ?  Every  fresh  specimen  of  hu- 
manity which  he  examined  was  so  much  gained  in  general 
knowledge.  Very  true,  Thomas  Thurnall,  provided  tlic 
method  of  examination  be  the  sound  and  the  deep  one, 
wiiich  will  lead  you  down  in  each  case  to  the  real  living 
heart  of  humanity  ;  but  what  if  your  method  be  altogethfT 
a  shallow  and  a  cynical  one,  savoring  miich  more  of  Gil 
Bias  than  of  St.  Paul,  grounded  not  on  faith  and  love  for 
human  beings,  but  on  something  very  like  suspicion  and 
contempt  ?  You  will  be  but  too  likely,  doctor,  to  make 
the  coarsest  mistakes,  when  you  fancy  yourself  most  pene- 
trating ;  to  mistake  the  mere  scurf  and  disease  of  the 
character  for  its  healthy  organic  tissue,  and  to  find  out  at 
hist,  somewhat  to  your  confusion,  that  there  are  more 
things,  not  only  in  heav(>n,  but  in  the  earthiest  of  the  earth, 
than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.  You  have  already 
set  down  Grace  Harvey  as  a  hypocrite,  and  Willis  as  a 
dotard.  Will  you  make  up  your  mind,  in  the  same  foolish- 
ness of  over-wisdom,  that  Frank  Ileadley  is  a  merely  nar- 
row-headed and  hard-hearted  pedant,  quite  unaware  that 
he  is  living  an  inner  life  of  doubts,  struggles,  prayers,  self- 
r(^proaches,  noble  hunger  after  an  ideal  of  moral  excellence, 
such  as  you,  friend  Tom,  never  yet  dreamed  of,  which 
would  be  to  you  as  an  unintelligible  gibber  of  shadows  out 
of  dream-land,  but  which  is  t(j  him  the  only  reality,  the  life 
of  life,  for  which  everything  is  to  be  risked  and  sufl'ered  ? 
You  treat  his  opinions  (though  he  never  thrusts  them  on 
you)  about  "the  Church,"  and  his  duty,  and  the  souls  of 
ills  parishioners,  with  civil  indifrereiice,  as  much  ado  about 
nothing  ;  and  his  rubrical  ecc-entricities  as  puerilities  :  you 
have  already  made  up  your  mind  to  "try  and  jnit  a  little 
common  sense  into  him,"  not  because  it  is  any  concern  of 
yours  whether  he  has  common  sense  or  not,  but  because 
vou- think  that  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  have  the  parish 
at  peace  ;  but  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  how  noble  the 
man  is,  even  in  his  mistakes  ?     How  that  one  thought,  that 


THE   WAY   TO    WIN   THEM.  85 

the  fin'^st  thing  in  the  world  is  to  be  utterly  good,  and  to 
make  others  good  also,  puts  him  three  heavens  at  least 
above  you,  you  most  unangelic  terrier-dog,  bemired  all  day 
long  by  grubbing  after  vermin  ?  What  if  his  idea  of  "  the 
Church"  be  somewhat  too  narrow  for  the  year  of  grace 
1854,  is  it  no  honor  to  him  that  he  has  such  an  idea  at  all  , 
that  there  has  risen  up  before  him  the  vision  of  a  perfect 
polity,  a  "  Divine  and  wonderful  Order,"  linking  earth  to 
heaven,  and  to  the  very  throne  of  Ilim  who  died  fen-  men  ; 
witnessing  to  each  of  its  citizens  what  the  world  tries  to 
make  him  forget,  namely,  that  he  is  the  child  of  God  him- 
self; and  guiding  and  strengthening  him,  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  to  do  Ins  Father's  work  ?  Is  it  a  shame  to 
him  that  he  has  seen  that  such  a  polity  must  exist,  that  he 
believes  that  it  does  exist ;  or  that  he  thinks  he  finds  it  in 
its  highest,  if  not  its  pei'fect  form,  in  the  most  ancient  and 
august  traditions  of  his  native  land  ?  True,  he  has  much 
to  learn,  and  you  may  teach  him  something  of  it ;  but  you 
will  find  some  day,  Thomas  Thurnall,  that,  granting  you  to 
be  at  one  pole  of  the  English  character,  and  Prank  Headley 
at  the  other,  he  is  as  good  an  Englishman  as  you,  and  caji 
teach  you  more  than  you  can  him. 

The  two  soon  began  to  pass  almost  every  evening  to- 
gether, pleasantly  enough  ;  for  the  reckless  and  rattling 
manner,  which  Tom  assumed  with  the  mob,  he  laid  aside 
with  the  curate,  and  showed  himself  as  agreeable  a  com- 
panion as  man  could  need  :  while  Tom  in  his  turn  found 
that  Ileadley  was  a  rational  and  sweet-tempered  man,  who, 
even  where  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  differ,  could  hear 
an  adverse  opinion,  put  sometimes  in  a  startling  shape, 
Avithout  falling  into  any  of  those  male  hysterics  of  sacred 
horror  which  are  the  usual  refuge  of  ignorance  and  stu 
pidity,  terrified  by  what  it  cannot  refute.  And  soon  Tom 
began  to  lay  aside  the  reserve  which  he  usually  assumed 
to  clergymen,  and  to  tread  on  ground  which  Headley  would 
gladly  have  avoided.  For,  to  tell  the  truth,  ever  since 
Tom  had  heard  of  Grace's  intended  dismissal,  the  curate's 
opinions  had  assumed  a  practical  importance  in  his  eyes  ; 
and  he  had  vowed  in  secret  that,  if  his  cunning  failed  him 
not,  turned  out  of  her  school  she  should  not  be.  Whether 
she  had  stolen  his  money  or  not,  she  had  saved  his  life  ; 
and  nobody  should  wrong  her,  if  he  could  help  it.  Besides, 
perhaps  she  had  not  his  money.  The  belt  might  have 
slipped  oif  in  the  struggle  ;  some  one  else  might  have 
taken  it  ofi'  in  carrying  iiim  up  ;  he  might  have  mistaken 
8 


86  THE   WAY   TO   WIN   THEM. 

the  shame  of  innocence  in  her  face  for  that  of  guilt.  Be  iV 
as  it  niiglit,  lie  liud  not  tlie  heart  to  make  the  matter  public, 
and  contented  himself  with  staying  at  Aberalva,  and  watch- 
ing I'or  every  hint  of  his  lost  treasure. 

JBy  which  it  bel'ell  that  he  was  thinking,  the  half  of  every 
day  at  least,  about  Grace  Harvey  ;  and  her  face  was  seldom 
out  of  his  mind's  eye  :  and  the  more  he  looked  at  it,  eithei 
in  fancy  or  in  fact,  the  more  did  it  fascinate  him.  Tliej''  met 
but  rarely,  and  then  interchanged  the  most  simple  and 
modest  of  salutations  ;  but  Tom  liked  to  meet  her,  would 
have  gladly  stopped  to  chat  with  her,  but,  whether  from 
modesty,  or  from  a  guilty  conscience,  she  always  hurried 
on  in  silence. 

And  she  ?  Tom's  request  to  her,  through  Willis,  to  say 
nothing  about  the  matter,  she  had  obeyed,  as  her  mother 
also  had  done.  That  Tom  suspected  her,  was  a  thought 
which  never  crossed  her  mind  ;  to  suspect  any  one  herself 
was  in  her  eyes  a  sin  :  and  if  the  fancy  arose  that  this  man  or 
that,  among  the  sailors  who  had  carried  Tom  up  to  Ileale's, 
might  have  been  capable  of  the  baseness,  she  thrust  the 
thought  from  her,  and  prayed  to  be  forgiven  for  her  un- 
charitable judgment. 

But  night  and  day  there  weighed  on  that  strange  and 
delicate  spirit  the  shame  of  the  deed,  as  heavily,  if  possible, 
as  if  she  herself  had  been  the  doer.  There  was  another  soul 
in  danger  of  perdition  ;  another  black  spot  of  sin,  making 
earth  hideous  to  her.  The  village  was  disgraced  ;  not  in 
the  public  eyes,  true  ;  but  in  the  eye  of  Heaven,  and  in  the 
eyes  of  that  stranger  for  whom  she  was  beginning  to  feel  an 
interest  more  intense  than  she  ever  had  done  in  any  human 
being  before.  Her  saintliness  (for  Grace  was  a  saint  iti  the 
truest  sense  of  that  word)  had  long  since  made  her  free  of 
that  "  communion  of  saints"  which  consists  not  in  Pharisaic 
isolation  from  "the  world,"  not  in  the  mutual  flatteries  and 
congratulations  of  a  self-conceited  clique :  but  which  bears 
the  sins  and  carries  the  sorrows  of  all  around  ;  whose  atmos- 
phere is  disappointed  hopes  and  plans  for  good  ;  the  indig- 
nation wliich  hates  the  sin  because  it  loves  the  sinner ;  and 
sacred  fear  and  pity  for  the  self-inflicted  miseries  of  those 
who  might  be  (so  runs  the  dream,  and  will  run  till  it  becomes 
a  waking  reality)  strong,  and  free,  and  safe,  by  being  good 
and  wise.  To  such  a  spirit  this  bold,  cunning  man  had 
come,  stirT-necked  and  Heaven  defiant,  a  "brand  plucked 
from  the  burning  ;  "  and  yet  equally  unconscious  of  hia 
danger,  and   thankless   for  his   respite.     Given,  too,   as  it 


THE    WAY   TO   WIN    THEM,  87 

w^eve,  into  her  hands ;  tossed  at  her  feet  out  of  the  very 
mouth  of  the  pit, — why,  but  that  she  might  save  him?  A 
far  duller  heart,  a  far  uari'ower  imagination  than  Grace's, 
would  have  done  what  Grace's  did  —  concentrate  themselves 
round  the  image  of  this  man  with  all  the  love  of  woman. 
For,  ere  long,  Grace  found  that  she  did  love  this  man,  as  a 
woman  loves  but  once  in  her  life  ;  perhaps  in  all  time  to 
come.  She  found  that  her  heart  throbbed,  her  cheek 
flushed,  when  his  name  was  mentioned  ;  that  she  watched, 
almost  unawares  to  herself,  for  his  passing ;  and  she  was 
not  ashamed  of  the  discovery.  It  was  a  sort  of  melancholy 
comfort  to  her  that  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed  between 
them.  His  station,  his  acquirements,  his  great  connections 
and  friends  in  London  (for  all  Tom's  matters  were  the  gos- 
sip of  the  town,  as,  indeed,  he  took  care  that  they  should 
be),  made  it  impossible  that  he  should  ever  think  of  her  ; 
and  therefore  she  held  herself  excused  for  thinking  of  him, 
without  any  fear  of  that  "self-seeking,"  and  "inordinate 
affection,"  and  "  unsanctified  passions,"  which  her  religious 
books  had  taught  her  to  dread.  Besides,  he  was  not  "a 
Christian."  That  five  minutes  on  the  shore  had  told  her 
that;  and  even  if  her  station  had  been  the  same  as  his,  she 
must  not  be  "unequally  yoked  with  an  unbeliever."  And 
thus  the  very  hopelessness  of  her  love  became  its  food  and 
strength  ;  the  feeling,  which,  had  it  been  connected  even 
remotely  with  marriage,  she  would  have  checked  with  maid- 
enly modesty,  was  allowed  to  take  immediate  and  entire 
dominion  ; -and  she  held  herself  permitted  to  keep  him  next 
her  heart  of  hearts,  because  she  could  do  nothing  for  him 
but  pray  for  his  conversion. 

And  pray  for  him  she  did,  the  noble,  guileless  girl,  day 
and  night,  that  he  might  be  converted  ;  that  he  might  pros- 
per, and  become  —  perhaps  rich,  at  least  useful ;  a  mighty 
instrument  in  some  good  work.  And  then  she  would  build 
up  one  beautiful  castle  in  the  air  after  another,  out  of  her 
fancies  about  what  such  a  man,  whom  she  had  invested  in 
her  own  mind  with  all  the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  might  do  if 
his  "  talents  were  sanctified."  Then  she  prayed  that  he 
might  recover  his  lost  gold  —  when  it  was  good  for  him  ; 
that  he  might  discover  the  thief ;  no  —  that  would  onlv  in- 
volve  fresh  shame  and  sorrow  ;  that  the  thief,  then,  might  he 
brought  to  repentance,  and  confession,  and  restitution. 
That  was  the  solution  of  the  dark  problem,  and  for  that  she 
prayed  ;  while  her  ftice  grew  sadder  and  sadder  day  by  day 

For  a  while,  over  and   above   the   pain  which  the  thefl 


88  THE    WAY    TO    WIN    THEM. 

caused  her,  there  came  —  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  — 
sudden  pangs  of  regret  iliat  this  same  love  was  hopeless,  at 
least  upon  this  side  the  grave.  Inconsistent,  they  were, 
with  the  chivalrous  nnscllishiiess  of  her  usual  temper  :  and 
as  such  she  dashed  them  from  her,  and  conquered  them, 
after  a  while,  by  a  methud  which  many  a  woman  knows  too 
well.  It  was  but  "  one  cross  more  ;  "  a  natural  part  of  he. 
destiny  —  the  child  of  sorrow  and  heaviness  of  heart. 
Pleasure  in  joy  she  was  never  to  liiul  on  earth  ;  she  would 
find  it,  then,  in  grief.  And,  nursing  her  own  melancholy, 
she  went  on  her  way,  sad,  sweet,  and  steadfast,  and  lavished 
more  care,  and  tend(>rness,  and  even  gayety,  than  ever  upon 
her  neighbors'  children,  because  she  knew  that  she  should 
never  have  a  child  of  her  own. 

But  there  is  a  third  damsel,  to  whom,  whether  more  ui 
less  engaging  than  Grace  Harvey  or  Miss  Ileale,  my  readers 
must  needs  be  introduced  —  or  rather  let  Miss  Heale  herself 
do  it,  with  eyes  full  of  jealous  curiosity. 

"  There  is  a  foreign  letter  for  Mr.  Tliurnall,  marked  Mon- 
treal, and  sent  on  here  from  VVhitbury,"  said  she,  one  morn- 
ing at  bx-eakfast,  and  in  a  significant  tone  ;  for  the  address 
was  evidently  in  a  woman's  hand. 

"For  me  —  ah,  yes;  I  see,"  said  Tom,  taking  it  care- 
lessly, and  thrusting  it  into  his  pocket. 

"  Won't  you  read  it  at  once,  Mr.  Thurnall  ?  I  'm  sure 
you  must  be  anxious  to  hear  from  friends  abroad  ;  "  with  an 
emphasis  on  the  word  friends. 

"  1  have  a  good  many  ac(]u;iintances  all  over- the  world, 
but  no  friends  that  I  am  aware  of,"  said  Tom,  and  went  on 
with  his  breakfast. 

"  Ah,  but  some  people  are  more  than  friends  !  Are  the 
Montreal  ladies  pretty,  Mr.  Thurnall  'i  " 

"  Don't  know  ;  for  I  never  was  there." 

Miss  Heale  was  silent,  being  mystified  ;  and,  moreover, 
not  quite  sure  whether  Montreal  was  in  India  or  in  Aus- 
tralia, and  not  willing  to  show  her  ignorance. 

She  watched  Tom  through  the  glass  door  all  the  morning 
to  see  if  he  read  the  letter,  and  betrayed  any  emotion  at  its 
contents  ;  but  Tom  went  about  his  business  as  usual,  and, 
as  far  as  she  saw,  never  read  it  at  all. 

However,  it  was  read  in  due  time  ;  for,  finding  himself 
in  a  lonely  place  that  afternoon,  Tom  pulled  it  out  with  an 
anxious  face,  and  read  a  letter  written  in  a  hasty,  ill-fn-med 
hand,  underscored  at  every  fifth  m  ord,  and  plentifully 
bedecked  with  notes  of  exclamation. 


THE    WAY    TO    WIN    THEM.  89 

"  What !  my  dearest  friend,  and  fortune  still  frowns  upon 
you  ?  Your  father  blind  and  ruined  !  Ah,  that  I  were  there 
to  comfort  him  for  your  sake  !  And  ah,  that  I  were  any- 
where, doing  any  drudg-ery,  which  might  prevent  my  being 
still  a  burden  to  my  benefactors  !  Not  that  they  are  unkind  ; 
not  that  they  are  not  angels  !  I  told  them  at  once  that  you 
could  send  me  no  more  money  till  you  reached  England, 
perhaps  not  then  ;  and  they  answered  that  God  would  send 
it ;  that  He  who  had  sent  me  to  them  would  send  the  means 
of  supporting  me  ;  and  ever  since  they  have  redoubled  their 
kindness.  But  it  is  intolerable,  this  dependence,  and  on 
you,  too,  who  have  a  father  to  support  in  his  darkness.  0, 
how  I  feel  for  you  !  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  pay  a  price 
for  this  dependence.  I  must  needs  be  staid  and  sober  ;  I 
must  needs  dress  like  any  quakeress  ;  I  must  not  read  this 
book  nor  that ;  and  my  Shelley  —  taken  from  me,  I  suppose, 
because  it  spoke  too  much  '  Liberty,'  though,  of  course, 
the  reason  given  was  its  infidel  opinions  —  is  replaced  by 
'  Law's  Serious  Call.'  'T  is  all  right  and  good,  I  doubt  not ; 
but  it  is  very  dreary  ;  as  dreary  as  these  black  fir-forests, 
and  brown  snake-fences,  and  that  dreadful,  dreadful  Cana- 
dian winter  which  is  past,  which  went  to  my  very  heart,  day 
after  day,  like  a  sword  of  ice.  Another  such  winter,  and  I 
shall  die,  as  one  of  my  own  humming-birds  would  die,  did 
you  cage  him  here,  and  prevent  him  from  fleeing  home  to 
the  sunny  South  when  the  first  leaves  begin  to  fall.  Dear 
children  of  the  sun  !  my  heart  goes  forth  to  them  ;  and  the 
whir  of  their  wings  is  music  to  me,  for  it  tells  me  of  the 
South,  the  glaring  South,  with  its  glorious  flowers,  and 
glorious  woods,  its  luxuriance,  life,  fierce  enjoyments  —  let 
fierce  sorrows  come  with  them,  if  it  must  be  so  !  Let  me 
take  the  evil  with  the  good,  and  live  my  rich  wild  life  through 
bliss  and  agony,  like  a  true  daughter  of  the  sun,  instead  of 
crystallizing  slowly  here  into  ice,  amid  countenances  rigid 
with  respectability,  sharpened  by  the  lust  of  gain  ;  without 
taste,  without  emotion,  without  even  sorrow  !  Let  who  will 
be  the  stagnant  mill-head,  crawling  in  its  ugly  spade-cut 
ditch  to  turn  the  mill.  Let  me  be  the  wild  mountain  brook, 
which  foams  and  flashes  over  the  rocks  —  what  if  they  tear 
it  ?  —  it  leaps  them,  nevertheless,  and  goes  laughing  on  its 
way.  Let  me  go  thus,  for  weal  or  woe  !  And  if  I  sleep 
a  while,  let  it  be,  like  the  brook,  beneath  the  shade  of  fra- 
grant magnolias  and  luxuriant  vines,  and  image,  meanwhile. 
in  my  bosom,  nothing  but  the  beauty  around. 

"Yes,  my  friend,  I  can  live  no  longer  this  dull  chrysalid 


90  THE   WAY   TO   WIN   THEM. 

life,  in  comparison  witli  wliicli,  at  times,  cvon  tlic  past  dark 
dream  seems  tolerable  ;  for  amid  its  lurid  smoke  were  llashea 
of  brightness.  A  slave  ?  Well ;  I  ask  myself  at  times,  and 
wliat  were  women  meant  for  but  to  be  slaves  ?  Free  thorn, 
and  they  enslave  themselves  again,  or  languish  unsatisded  ; 
for  they  must  love.  And  what  blame  to  them  if  they  love 
a  white  man,  tyrant  tlu)ugh  he  be,  rather  than  a  fellow-slave  ? 
If  the  men  of  our  own  race  will  claim  us,  let  them  prove 
themselves  worthy  of  us  !  Let  them  rise,  exterminate  their 
tyrants,  or,  failing  that,  show  that  they  know  how  to  die  ! 
Till  then,  those  who  are  the  masters  of  their  bodies  will  be 
the  masters  of  our  hearts.  If  they  crouch  before  the  white 
like  brutes,  what  wonder  if  we  look  up  to  him  as  to  a  god  ? 
Woman  must  worship,  or  be  wretched.  Do  I  not  know  it? 
Have  I  not  had  my  dream  —  too  beautiful  for  earth  ?  Was 
there  not  one,  whom  you  knew,  to  hear  whom  call  me  slave 
would  have  been  rapture  ;  —  to  whom  I  would  have  answered 
on  my  knees.  Master,  I  have  no  will  but  yours  ?  But  that 
is  past  —  past!  One  happiness  alone  was  possible  for  a 
Blave,  and  even  that  they  tore  from  me  ;  and  now  I  have  no 
thought,  no  purpose,  save  revenge  ! 

"  These  good  people  bid  me  forgive  my  enemies.  Easy 
enough  for  them,  who  have  no  enemies  to  forgive.  Forgive  ? 
Forgive  injustice,  oppression,  baseness,  cruelty  ?  Forgive 
the  devil,  and  bid  him  go  in  peace,  and  work  his  wicked 
will  ?  Why  have  they  put  into  my  hands,  these  last  three 
years,  books  worthy  of  a  free  nation  ?  —  books  which  call 
patriotism  divine  ;  — which  tell  me  how,  in  every  age  and 
clime,  men  have  been  called  heroes  who  rose  against  their 
conquerors, — women  martyrs,  who  stabbed  their  tyrants,  and 
then  died  ?  Hypocrites  !  Did  their  grandfathers  meekly 
turn  the  other  cheek  when  your  English  taxed  them  somewhat 
too  heavily  ?  Do  they  not  now  teach  every  school-child  to 
glory  in  their  own  revolution,  their  own  declaration  of  inde- 
pendence, and  to  flatter  themselves  into  the  conceit  that 
they  are  the  lords  of  creation,  and  the  examples  of  the  world, 
because  they  asserted  that  sacred  right  of  resistance  which 
is  discovered  to  be  unchristian  in  the  African  ?  They  will 
free  us,  forsooth,  in  good  time  (is  it  to  be  in  God's  good  time, 
or  in  their  own  ?),  if  we  will  but  be  patient,  and  endure  the 
rice-swamp,  the  scourge,  the  slave-market,  and  shame 
unspeakable,  a  few  years  more,  till  all  is  ready  and  safe, — 
for  them.  Dreamers,  as  well  as  hypocrites  !  What  nation 
was  ever  freed  by  others'  help  ?  I  have  been  reading  history 
to  see.  —  you  do  not  know  how  much  I  have  been  rending, 


THE   WAY   TO   WIN  THEM.  91 

—  and  I  find  that  freemen  have  always  freed  themselves^  as 
we  must  do  ;  and  as  they  will  never  let  us  do,  because  they 
know  that  with  freedom  must  come  retribution  ;  that  our 
Southern  tyrants  have  an  account  to  render  which  the  cold 
Northerner  has  no  heart  to  see  him  pay.  For,  after  all,  he 
loves  the  Southerner  better  than  the  slave  ;  and  fears  hin, 
more,  also.  What  if  the  Southern  aristocrat,  who  lords  it 
over  him  as  the  panther  does  over  the  ox,  should  transfer 
(as  he  has  threatened  many  a  time)  the  cowhide  from  the 
negro's  loins  to  his  ?  No  ;  we  must  free  ourselves  !  And 
there  lives  one  woman,  at  least,  who,  having-  gained  her 
freedom,  knows  how  to  use  it  in  eternal  war  against  all 
tyrants.  0,  I  could  go  down,  I  think  at  moments,  down  to 
New  Orleans  itself,  with  a  brain  and  lips  of  fire,  and  speak 
words  —  you  know  how  I  could  speak  them  —  which  would 
liring  me  in  a  week  to  the  scourge,  perhaps  to  the  stake 
The  scourge  I  could  endure.  Have  I  not  felt  it  already  ? 
Do  I  not  bear  its  scars  even  now,  and  glory  in  them  ?  for 
they  were  won  by  speaking  as  a  woman  should  speak  ;  and 
even  the  fire?  —  Have  not  women  been  martyrs  already? 
and  could  not  I  be  one  ?  Might  not  my  torments  madden 
a  people  into  manhood,  and  my  name  become  a  war-cry  in 
the  sacred  fight  ?  And  yet,  0  my  friend,  life  is  sweet !  — 
and  my  little  day  has  been  so  dark  and  gloomy  !  —  ma)  I 
not  have  one  hour's  sunshine  ere  youth  and  vigor  are  gone, 
and  my  swift-vanishing  Southern  womanhood  wrinkles  itself 
up  into  despised  old  age  ?  0,  counsel  me  !  help  me,  my 
friend,  my  preserver,  my  true  master  now ;  who  is  so 
brave,  so  wise,  so  all-knowing,  under  whose  mask  of  cyni- 
cism lies  hid  (have  I  not  cause  to  know  it  ?)  the  heart  of  a 
hero.  Marie." 

If  Miss  Heale  could  have  watched  Tom's  face  as  he  read, 
much  more  could  she  have  heard  his  words  as  he  finished, 
all  jealousy  would  have  passed  from  her  mind  ;  for,  as  he 
read,  the  cynical  smile  grew  sharper  and  sharper,  forming  a 
(it  prelude  for  the  "  little  fool  !  "  which  was  his  only  com- 
ment. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  some  hon- 
pst  farmer  years  ago  ;  but  a  martyr  you  shan't  be,  even  if 
I  have  to  send  for  you  hither  ;  though  how  to  get  you  bread 
to  eat  I  don't  know.  However,  you  have  been  reading 
your  book,  it  seems,  —  clever  enough  you  always  were,  and 
too  clever,  —  so  you  could  go  out  as  governess,  or  some- 
thing.    Why,  here  's  a  postscript,  dated  three  months  after 


92  THE   WAY   TO   WIN   THEM. 

wards  !  Ah,  I  see  ;  this  letter  was  written  last  July,  in 
answer  to  my  Australian  one.  What 's  the  meaning  of 
this  ?  "     And  he  began  reading  again. 

"  I  wrote  so  far;  but  I  had  not  the  heart  to  send  it;  it 
was  so  full  of  repinings.  And  since  then,  —  must  1  tell  the 
truth  ?  I  have  made  a  step  ;  do  not  call  it  a  desperate  one  ; 
do  no.,  blame  me,  for  your  blame  I  cannot  bear ;  but  I  ha\8 
gone  on  the  stage.  There  was  no  other  means  of  independ- 
ence open  to  me  ;  and  I  had  a  dreain,  I  have  it  still,  that 
there,  if  anywhere,  1  might  do  my  work.  You  told  me  that 
I  might  become  a  great  actress  ;  I  have  set  my  heart  on 
becoming  one  ;  on  learning  to  move  the  hearts  of  men,  till 
the  time  comes  when  1  can  tell  them,  show  them,  in  living 
flesh  and  blood,  upon  the  stage,  the  secrets  of  a  slave's 
sorrows,  and  that  slave  a  woman.  The  time  has  not  come 
for  that  yet  here  ;  but  1  liave  had  my  success  already,  more 
than  I  could  have  expected  ;  and  not  only  in  Canada  but 
in  the  States.  I  have  been  at  New  York,  acting  to  crowded 
houses.  Ah,  when  they  applauded  me,  how  I  longed  to 
speak !  to  pour  out  my  whole  soul  to  them,  and  call  upon 

them,  as  men,  to .     But  that  will  come  in  time.     I  have 

found  a  friend,  who  has  promised  to  write  dramas  especially 
forme.  Merely  republican  ones  at  first;  in  which  I  can 
give  full  vent  to  my  passion,  and  hurl  forth  the  eternal  laws 
(if  liberty,  wliich  their  consciences  may  —  must  —  at  last, 
apply  for  themselves.  But  soon,  he  says,  we  shall  be  able 
to  dare  to  approach  the  real  subject,  if  not  in  America,  still 
in  Europe  ;  and  the  colored  actress  will  stand  forth  as  the 
championess  of  her  race,  of  all  who  are  oppressed,  in  every 
capital  in  Europe,  save,  alas  !  Italy,  and  the  Austria  who 
crushes  her.  1  have  taken,  I  should  tell  you,  an  Italian 
name.  It  was  better,  1  thought,  to  hide  my  African  taint, 
forsooth,  for  a  while.  And  the  wise  New  Yorkers  have 
been  feting,  as  Maria  Cordifiamma,  the  white  woman  (lor 
am  I  not  fairer  than  many  an  Italian  signora?),  whom  they 
would  have  looked  on  as  an  inferior  being  under  the  name 
of  Marie  Lavington  ;  though  there  is  finer  old  English  blood 
running  in  jny  veins,  from  your  native  Berksliire,  the^'  say, 
than  in  any  a  Down-Easter's  who  hangs  upon  my  lips. 
Address  me  henceforth,  then,  as  La  Signora  Maria  Cordifi- 
amma ;  I  am  learning  fast,  by  the  by,  to  speak  Italian.  I 
shall  be  at  Quebec  till  the  end  of  the  month.  Then,  I 
believe,  I  come  to  London  ;  and  we  shall  meet  once  more  ; 
and  I  shall  thank  you,  thank  you,  thank  you,  once  more, 
for  all  your  marvellous  kindness." 


THE   WAY   TO   WIN   THEM.  93 

"  Humph  I  "  said  Tom,  after  a  while.  "  Well,  she  is  old 
enough  to  choose  for  herself.  Five-and-twenty  she  must  be 
by  now.  ...  As  for  the  stage,  I  suppose  it  is  the  best 
place  for  her ;  better,  at  least,  than  turning  governess,  and 
going  mad,  as  she  would  do,  over  her  drudgery  and  her 
dreams.  But  who  is  this  friend  ?  Singing-master,  scribbler, 
or  political  refugee  ?  or,  perhaps,  all  three  together  ?  A 
dark  lot,  those  fellows.  I  must  keep  my  eye  on  him. 
Though  it 's  no  concern  of  mine.  I  've  done  my  duty  by 
the  poor  thing  ;  the  devil  himself  can't  deny  that.  But 
somehow,  if  this  play-writing  worthy  plays  her  false,  I  feel 
very  much  as  if  I  should  be  fool  enough  to  try  whether  1 
bave  forgotten  my  pistcl-shootini?." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

AN   OLD    FOE   WITH    A    NEW   FACE. 

"  This  chiUrs  head  is  dreadfully  hot ;  and  how  yellow  he 
does  look!  "  says  Mrs.  Vavasour,  fussing-  about  in  her  little 
nursery.  "  0,  Clara,  what  shall  1  do  ?  I  really  dare  not 
give  them  any  more  medicine  myself;  and  that  horrid  old 
Doctor  Ileale  is  worse  than  no  one." 

"  Ah,  ma'am,"  says  Clara,  Avho  is  privileged  to  bemoan 
herself,  and  to  have  sad  confidences  made  to  her,  "  if  we 
were  but  in  town  now,  to  see  Mr.  Chilvers,  or  any  one  that 
could  be  trusted ;  but  in  this  dreadful  out-of-the-way 
place  —  " 

"Don't  talk  of  it,  Clara!  0,  what  will  become  of  the 
poor  children  ?  "  And  Mrs.  Vavasour  sits  down  and  cries, 
as  she  does  three  times  at  least  every  week. 

"But,  indeed,  ma'am,  if  you  thought  you  could  trust 
him,  there  is  that  new  assistant —  " 

"  The  man  who  was  saved  from  the  wreck  ?  Why,  nobody 
knows  who  he  is." 

"  0,  but,  indeed,  ma'am,  he  is  a  very  nice  gentleman,  I 
can  say  that ;  and  so  wonderfully  clever  ;  and  has  cured  so 
many  people  alread}'^,  they  say,  and  got  down  a  lot  of  nsw 
medicines  (for  he  has  great  iVieiids  among  the  doctors  in 
town),  and  such  a  wonderful  magniiying  glass,  with  which  he 
showed  me  himself,  as  I  dropped  into  the  shop  promiscuous, 
such  horrible  things,  my  lady,  in  a  drop  of  water,  that  I 
haven't  dared  hardly  to  wash  ni}'  face  since." 

"  And  what  good  will  the  magniiying  glass  do  to  us  ?  " 
Bays  the  poor  little  Irish  soul,  laughing  up  through  its  tears. 
"  lie  won't  want  it  to  see  how  ill  poor  Frederick  is,  I  'm 
sure  ;  but  you  may  send  for  him,  Clara." 

"  I  '11  go  myself,  ma'am,  and  make  sure,"  says  Clara  ; 
glad  enough  of  a  run,  and  chance  of  a  chat  with  the  young 
doctor. 

And  in  half  an  hour  Mr.  Thurnall  is  announced. 

Though  Mrs.  Vavasour  has  a  flannel  apron  on  (for  she 

(94) 


AN   OLD    FOE   WITH   A   NEW  FACE.  95 

will  wash  the  children  herself,  in  spite  of  Elsley's  grum- 
blings), Tom  sees  that  she  is  a  lady  ;  and  puts  on,  accord- 
ingly, his  very  best  manner,  which,  as  his  experience  has 
long  since  taught  him,  is  no  manner  at  all. 

He  does  his  work  quietly  and  kindly,  and  bows  himself 
out. 

"  YoTi  will  be  sure  to  send  the  medicine  immediately,  Mr. 
Thurnall." 

"  I  will  bring  it  myself,  madam  ;  and,  if  you  like,  admin- 
ister it.  I  think  the  young  gentleman  has  made  friends 
with  me  sufficiently  already." 

Tom  keeps  his  word,  and  is  back,  and  a.wa,j  again  to  his 
shop,  in  a  marvellously  short  space,  having  "  struck  a  fresh 
root,"  as  he  calls  it ;  for  — 

"  What  a  very  well-behaved,  sensible  man  that  Mr.  Thur- 
nall  is  !  "  said  Lucia  to  Elsley,  an  hour  after,  as  she  meets 
him  coming  in  from  the  garden,  where  he  has  been  polishing 
his  "Wreck."  "I  am  sure  he  understands  his  business ; 
he  was  so  kind  and  quiet,  and  yet  so  ready,  and  seemed  to 
know  all  the  child's  symptoms  beforehand,  in  such  a  strange 
way.  I  do  hope  he  '11  stay  here.  I  feel  happier  about  the 
poor  children  tlian  I  have  for  a  long  time." 

"  Thurnall  ?  "  asks  Elsley,  who  is  too  absorbed  in  the 
"  Wreck  "  to  ask  after  the  children  ;  but  the  name  catches 
his  ear. 

"  Mr.  Heale's  new  assistant  —  the  man  who  was 
wrecked,"  answers  she,  too  absorbed,  in  her  turn,  in  tho 
children  to  notice  her  husband's  startled  face. 

"  Thurnall  ?     Which  Thurnall  ?  " 

"Do  you  know  the  name?  it's  not  a  common  one," 
says  she,  moving  to  the  door. 

"  No  —  not  a  common  one  at  all  !  You  said  the  children 
were  not  well  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  thought  of  asking  after  the  poor 
things." 

"Why,  really,  my  dear — "  But  before  he  can  finish 
his  excuse  (probably  not  worth  hearing),  she  has  trotted  up 
stairs  again  to  the  nest,  and  is  as  busy  as  ever.  Possibly 
Clara  might  do  the  greater  part  of  what  she  does,  and  do  it 
better  :  but  still,  are  they  not  her  children  ?  Let  those  who 
will  call  a  mother's  care  a  mere  animal  instinct,  and  liken  it 
to  that  of  the  sparrow  or  the  spider  ;  shall  we  not  rather 
call  it  a  divine  inspiration,  and  doubt  whether  the  sparrow 
and  the  spider  must  not  have  souls  to  be  saved,  if  they,  tt)o, 
Bhow  forth  that  faculty  of  maternal  love  which  is,  of  all  bu- 


9G  AN  OLD    FOE   WITH   A   NEAV    FACE. 

man  feelings,  most  inexplicable  and  most  self-sacrificing; 
and  therefore,  surely,  most  heavenly  ?  If  that  does  not 
come  down  straiglit  from  heaven,  a  "  good  and  perfect 
gift,"  then  what  is  heaven,  and  what  the  gifts  which  it 
sends  down  ? 

But  poor  Elsley  may  have  had  solid  reasons  fur  tliiiikii:g 
more  of  tlie  name  of  Thurnall  tluin  of  his  children's  health  ; 
we  will  hope  so  for  his  sake  ;  for,  after  sundry  melo-dra- 
matic  pacings  and  starts  (Elsley  was  of  a  melo-dramatic 
turn,  and  fond  of  a  scene,  even  when  he  had  no  spectator, 
tiot  even  a  looking-glass),  besides  ejaculations  of  "  It  can- 
not be  1  "  "  If  it  were  !  ''  "  I  trust  not !  "  "A  fresh  ghost 
to  torment  me  !  "  "  When  will  come  the  end  of  this  ac- 
cursed coil  which  I  have  wound  round  my  life  ?  "  and  so 
forth,  he  decided  aloud  that  the  suspense  was  intolerable  ; 
and,  enclosing  himself  in  his  poetical  cloak  and  Mazzina 
wide-awake,  strode  down  to  the  town,  and  into  the  shop. 
And  as  he  entered  it  "his  hcai't  sank  to  his  midriff,  and  his 
knees  below  were  loosed."  For  there,  making  up  pills,  in 
a  pair  of  brown-hoUand  sleeves  of  his  own  manufacture  (for 
Tom  was  a  good  seamster,  as  all  travellers  should  be), 
whistled  Lilliburlero,  as  of  old,  the  Tom  of  other  days, 
which  Elsley's  muse  would  fain  have  buried  in  a  thousand 
Lethes. 

Elsley  came  forward  to  the  counter  carelessly,  neverthe- 
less, after  a  moment.  "  What  with  my  beard,  and  the 
lapse  of  time,"  thought  he,  "he  cannot  know  me."  So  he 
spoke,  — 

"  I  understand  you  have  been  visiting  my  children,  sir 
1  hope  you  did  not  find  them  seriously  indisposed  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Vavasour  ?  "  says  Tom,  with  a  low  bow. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Vavasour  !  "  But  Elsley  was  a  bad  actor,  and 
hesitated  and  colored  so  much  as  he  spoke,  that,  if  Tom  had 
known  nothing,  he  might  have  guessed  something. 

"Nothing  serious,  I  assure  you,  sir;  unless  you  are 
come  to  announce  any  fresh  symptom." 

"0,  no  —  not  at  all  —  that  is,  I  was  passing  on  my  waj' 
t^  the  quay,  and  thought  it  as  well  to  have  your  own  assur- 
ance ;  Mrs.  Vavasour  is  so  over-anxious." 

"  You  seem  to  partake  of  her  infirmity,  sir,"  says  Tom, 
with  a  smile  and  a  bow.  "  However,  it  is  one  which  does 
you  both  honor." 

An  awkward  pause. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  taking  a  liberty,  sir ;  but  I  think  I  ani 
bound  to —  " 


i.N   OLD    FOE   WITH   A   NEW   FACE.  97 

"  What  in  Heaven  is  he  going  to  say  ?  "  thought  Elsley 
to  himself,  feeling  very  much  inclined  to  run  away. 

"  Thank  you  for  all  the  pleasure  and  instruction  which 
your  writings  have  given  me  in  lonely  hours,  and  lonely 
places,  too.  Your  first  volume  of  poems  has  been  read  by 
one  man,  at  least,  beside  wild  watch-fires  in  the  Ro.ky 
Mountains." 

Tom  did  not  say  that  he  pitched  the  said  volume  into  the 
river  in  disgust ;  and  that  it  was,  probably,  long  since  used 
up  as  house-material  by  the  caddis-baits  of  those  parts, 
—  for  doubtless  there  are  caddises  there  as  elsewhere. 

Poor  Elsley  rose  at  the  bait,  and  smiled  and  bowed  in 
silence. 

"  I  have  been  so  long  absent  from  England,  and  in  utterly 
wild  countries,  too,  that  I  need  hardly  be  ashamed  to  ask  if 
you  have  written  anything  since  '  The  Soul's  Agonies  '  ? 
No  doubt,  if  you  have,  I  might  have  found  it  at  Melbourne, 
on  my  way  home  ;  but  my  visit  there  was  a  very  hurried 
one.  However,  the  loss  is  mine,  and  the  fault,  too,  as  I 
ought  to  call  it." 

"  Pray  make  no  excuses,"  says  Elsley,  dehghted.  "  I 
have  written,  of  course.  Who  can  help  writing,  sir,  while 
Nature  is  so  gloi'ious,  and  man  so  wretched  ?  One  cannot 
but  take  refuge  from  the  pettiness  of  the  real  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  ideal.  Yes,  I  have  written.  I  will  send  3'ou 
my  last  book  down.  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  find 
me  improved." 

"  How  can  I  doubt  that  I  shall  ?  " 

"  Saddened,  perhaps  ;  perhaps  more  severe  in  my  taste  ; 
but  we  will  not  talk  of  that.  I  owe  you  a  debt,  sir,  for 
having  furnished  me  with  one  of  the  most  striking  '  mo;ifs  ' 
I  ever  had.  I  mean  that  miraculous  escape  of  yours.  It 
is  seldom  enough,  in  this  dull  every-day  world,  one  stumbles 
on  such  an  incident  ready-made  to  one's  hands,  and  needing 
only  to  be  described  as  one  sees  it." 

And  the  weak,  vain  man  chatted  on,  and  ended  by  telling 
Tom  all  about  his  poem  of  "  The  Wreck,"  in  a  tone  which 
seemed  to  imply  that  he  had  done  Tom  a  serious  favor,  per- 
haps raised  him  to  immortality,  by  putting  him  in  a  book. 

Tom  thanked  him  gravely  for  the  said  honor,  bowed  him 
at  last  out  of  the  shop,  aiid  then  vaulted  back  clean  over 
the  counter,  as  soon  as  Elsley  was  out  of  sight,  and  com- 
menced an  Indian  war-dance  of  frantic  character,  accompa- 
nying himself  by  an  extemporary  chant,  with  which  the 
name  of  John  Briggs  was  frequentlv  intermingled  :  — 
9 


98  AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A  NEW  FACE. 

"  If  I  don't  know  you,  Johnny  my  boy, 
In  spite  of  all  your  beard. 
Why  then  I  am  a  slower  fellow 
Thau  ever  has  yet  apj^eared." 

"0,  if  it  was  but  he  !  what  a  card  for  mc  !    What  a  world  it 
is  for  poor  honest  rascals  like  me  to  try  a  fall  with  I  — 

'  Why  did  n't  I  take  bad  verse  to  make, 

And  call  it  poetry. 
And  so  make  up  to  an  earl's  daughter. 
Which  was  of  hiiz;h  deojree  ? ' 


'o' 


But  perhaps  I  'm  wroiif^  after  all ;  no,  I  saw  he  knew  me, 
the  humbug !  though  ho  never  was  a  humbug,  never  rose 
above  the  rank  of  fool.  However,  I  '11  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  aiid  then,  if  it  pays  me  not  to  tell  him  I  know 
him,  I  won't  tell  him  ;  and  if  it  pays  me  to  tell  him,  I  will 
tell  him.  Just  as  you  choose,  my  good  Mr.  Poet."  And 
Tom  returned  to  his  work  singing  an  extempore  parody  of 
"  We  met,  'twas  in  a  crowd,"  ending  with 

"And  thou  art  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  pill-box,' 

in  a  howl  so  doleful,  that  Mrs.  Heale  marched  into  tho 
shop,  evidently  making  up  her  mind  for  an  explosion. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  to  have  to  speak  to  you  upon  such 
a  subject ;  but  I  must  say  that  the  profane  songs,  sir,  which 
our  house  is  not  at  all  accustomed  to  them  ;  not  to  mention 
that  at  your  time  of  life,  and  in  your  position,  sir,  as  my 
husband's  assistant,  though  there's  no  saying"  (with  a 
meaning  toss  of  the  head)  "  how  long  it  may  last,"  —  and 
there,  her  grammar  having  got  into  a  hopeless  knot,  she 
stopped. 

Tom  looked  at  her  cheerfully  and  fixedly.  "  I  had  been 
expecting  this,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  Better  show  the  old 
cat  at  once  that  I  carry  claws  as  well  as  she." 

"  There  is  sajnng,  madam,  humbl}'^  begging  your  pardon, 
how  long  my  present  engagement  will  last.  It  will  last 
just  as  long  as  I  like." 

Mrs.  Ileale  boiled  over  with  rage  ;  but,  ere  the  geyser 
could  explode,  Tom  had  continued,  in  that  dogged  nasal 
Yankee  twang  which  ho  assumed  when  he  was  venomous. 

"  As  for  the  songs;,  ma'am,  there  are  two  ways  of  making 
one's  self  happy  in  this  life  ;  you  can  judge  for  yourself  which 
is  best.  One  is  to  do  one's  work  like  a  man,  and  hum  a 
tune,  to  keep  one's  spirits  up  ;  the  other  is,  to  let  the  work 


AN   OLD    FOE   WITH   A   NEW   FACE.  9fl 

g'O  to  rack  and  ruin,  and  keep  one's  spirits  up,  if  one  is  a 
gentleman,  by  a  little  too  much  brandy  ;  — if  one  is  a  lady, 
b}'  a  little  too  much  laudanum." 

"Laudanum,  sir?"  almost  screamed  Mrs.  Heale,  turn- 
ing pale  as  death. 

"  The  pint  bottle  of  best  laudanum,  which  I  had  from 
tou^n  a  fortnight  ago,  ma'am,  is  now  nearly  empty,  ma'am. 
I  will  make  affidavit  that  I  have  not  used  a  hundred  drops, 
or  drunk  one.  I  suppose  it  was  the  cat.  Cats  have  queer 
tastes  in  the  West,  1  believe.  I  have  heard  the  cat  coming 
down  stairs  into  the  surgery,  once  or  twice  after  I  was  in 
bed  ;  and  so  I  set  my  door  ajar  a  little,  and  saw  her  come 
up  again  ;  but  whether  she  had  a  vial  in  her  paws  —  " 

"  0,  sir  !  "   says   Mrs.  Heale,  bursting  to  tears.     "  And 

after  the  dreadful  tootliache  which  I  have  had  this  fortnight, 

vhich  nothing  but  a  little  laudanum  would  ease  it ;  and  at 

^ny  time  of  life,  to  mock  a  poor  elderlyjady's  infirmities, 

-vhich  I  did  not  look  for  this  cruelty  and  outrage  !  " 

"  Dry  your  tears,  my  dear  madam,"  says  Tom,  in  his 
Host  winning  tone.  "  You  will  always  find  me  the  thor- 
Dugh  gentleman,  I  am  sure.  If  I  had  not  been  one,  it  would 
have  been  easy  enough  for  me,  with  my  powerful  London 
connections,  —  though  I  won't  boast, — to  set  up  in  oppo- 
sition to  your  good  husband,  instead  of  saving  him  labor  in 
his  good  old  age.  Only,  my  dear  madam,  how  shall  I  get 
the  laudanum-bottle  refilled  without  the  doctor's — you  un- 
derstand ?  " 

The  wretched  old  woman  hurried  up  stairs,  and  brought 
him  down  a  half  sovereign  out  of  her  pi'ivate  hoard,  trem- 
bling like  an  aspen-leaf,  and  departed. 

"So  —  scotched,  but  not  killed.  You'll  gossip  and  lie 
too.  Never  trust  a  laudanum-drinker.  You  '11  see  me,  by 
the  eye  of  imagination,  committing  all  the  seven  deadly  sins  ; 
and,  by  the  tongue  of  inspiration,  go  forth  and  proclaim  the 
same  at  the  town-head.  I  can't  kill  you,  and  I  can't  cure 
you,  so  I  must  endure  you.  What  said  old  Gothe,  in  all 
the  German  I  ever  cared  to  recollect  ?  — 

'  Der  Wallfish  hat  doch  seine  Laus  : 
Muss  audi  die  meine  haben.' 

"  Now,  then,  for  Mrs.  Penberthy's  draughts.  I  wonder 
oow  that  pretty  schoolmistress  goes  on  ?  If  she  were  but 
honest,  now,  and  had  fifty  thousand  pounds  —  why,  then, 
she  would  n't  marry  me ;  and  so,  why,  now,  I  would  n't  marry 
she,-  -as  my  native  Bershire  grammar  would  render  it." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

LA    CORDIFIAMMA. 

This  chapter  shall  beg-in,  g-ood  reader,  with  one  of  those 
startling  bursts  of  "  illustration,"  with  which  our  most 
popular  preachers  arc  wont  now  to  astonish  and  edify  their 
hearers,  and  after  starting  with  them  at  the  opening  of  the 
sermon  from  the  north  pole,  the  Crystal  Palace,  or  the  nearest 
cabbage-garden,  float  them  safe,  upon  the  gushing  stream  of 
oratory,  to  the  safe  and  well-known  shores  of  doctrinal 
commonplace,  los\  in  admiration  at  the  skill  of  tlie  good 
man  who  can  thus  make  all  ruads  lead,  if  not  to  heaven,  at 
least  to  strong  language  about  its  opposite.  True,  the  log- 
ical sequence  of  their  periods  may  be,  like  that  of  the  com- 
ing one,  somewhat  questionable,  reminding  one  at  moments 
of  Fluellen's  comparison  between  Macedon  and  Monmouth, 
Henry  the  Fifth  and  Alexander ;  but,  in  the  logic  of  the 
pulpit,  all 's  well  that  ends  well,  and  the  end  must  needs 
sanctify  the  means.  There  is,  of  course,  some  connection 
or  other  between  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  or  how 
would  the  universe  hold  together?  And  if  one  has  not 
time  to  find  out  the  true  connection,  what  is  left  but  to 
invent  the  best  one  can  for  one's  self?  Thus  argues,  proba- 
bly, the  popular  preacher,  and  fills  his  pews,  proving  there- 
by so  clearly  the  excellence  of  his  method.  So  argue  also, 
probably,  the  popular  poets,  to  whose  "  luxuriant  iancy '" 
everything  suggests  anything,  and  thought  plays  leap- 
frog with  thought  down  one  page  and  up  the  next,  till  one 
fancies  at  moments  that  they  had  got  permission  from  the 
higher  powers,  before  looking  at  the  universe,  to  stir  it  all 
up  a  few  times  Math  spoon.  It  is  notorious,  of  course,  that 
poets  and  preachers  alike  pride  themselves  upon  this  meth- 
od of  astonishing;  that  the  former  call  it  "seeing  the  inli- 
nite  in  the  finite;"  the  latter,  "pressing  socidar  matters 
into  the  service  of  the  sanctuary,"  and  other  pretty  plmises 
which,  for  reverence'  sake,  shall  bo  omitted.  No  doubt  they 
have  their  reasons  and  their  reward.  The  style  takes  ;  the 
etyle  pays  ;  and  what  more  would  you  have  ?     Let  them  go 

(100) 


La  cordifiamma.  101 

on  rejoicing',  in  spite  of  the  cynical  pedants  in  the  Saturday 
Review,  who  dare  to  accuse  (will  it  be  believed?)  these 
luminaries  of  the  age  of  talking-  merely  irreverent  nonsense. 
Fur  my  part,  so  evident  is  the  success  (sole  test  of  merit"! 
which  has  attended  the  new  method,  that  it  is  worth  while 
trying  whether  it  will  not  be  as  taking  in  the  novel  as  it  is 
in  the  chapel  ;  and  therefore  the  reader  is  requested  to  pay 
special  attention  to  the  following  paragraph,  modelled  care- 
fully after  the  exordiums  of  a  famous  Irish  preacher,  now 
drawing  crowded  houses  at  the  west  end  of  the  town.  As 
thus  :  —  "It  is  the  pleasant  mouth  of  May,  when,  as  in  old 
Chaucer's  time,  the 

•  Smale  foules  maken  meloclie, 
That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye 
So  priketh  hem  nature  in  their  corages. 
Then  longen  folk  to  goe  on  pilgrimages. 
And  specially  from  every  shire's  end 
Of  Englelond,  to  Eseter-hall  they  wend,' 

till  the  low  places  of  the  Strand  blossom  with  white  cravats, 
those  lilies  of  the  valle3^  types  of  meekness  and  humility, 
at  least  in  the  pious  palmer  —  and  why  not  of  similar  vir- 
tues in  the  undertaker,  the  concert-singer,  the  groom,  the 
tavern-waiter,  the  croupier  at  the  gaming-table,  and  Frederic 
Augustus  Lord  Scoutbush,  who,  white-cravatted  like  the 
rest,  is  just  getting  into  his  cab  at  the  door  of  the  Never- 
mind-what  Theatre,  to  spend  an  hour  at  Kensington  before 

saunteriug  in  to  Lady  M 's  ball  ? 

"  Why  not,  I  ask,  at  least  in  the  case  of  little  Scoutbush  ? 
For  guardsman,  though  he  be,  coming  from  a  theatre  and 
going  to  a  ball,  there  is  meekness  and  humility  in  him  at 
tills  moment,  as  well  as  in  the  average  of  the  white-cravatted 
gentlemen  who  trotted  along  that  same  pavement  about 
eleven  o'clock  this  forenoon.  Why  should  not  his  white 
cravat,  like  theirs,  be  held  sj'mbolic  of  that  fact  ?  How- 
ever, Scoutbush  belongs  rather  to  the  former  than  the  latter 
of  Chaucer's  categories:  for  a  '  smale  foule '  he  is,  a  little 
bird-like  fellow,  who  maketh  melodic  also,  and  warbles  like 
a  cock-robin  ;  we  cannot  liken  him  to  any  more  dignified 
songster.  Moreover,  he  will  sleep  all  night  with  open  eye  ; 
for  he  will  not  be  in  bed  till  five  to-morrow  morning  ;  and 
pricked  lu;  is,  and  that  sorely,  in  his  courage  ;  for  he  is  as 
much  in  love  as  his  little  nature  can  be  with  the  new 
actress.  La  Signora  Cordifiamma,  of  the  Never-mind-what 
Theatre." 

9* 


102  LA    CORDIFIAMMA. 

IIow  exquisitely,  now  (for  this  is  one  of  the  rare  coca 
sions  in  which  a  man  is  permitted  to  praise  himself),  ia 
establisiied  hereby  an  unexpected  bond  of  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out  between  thing's  which  had,  ere  they  came 
beneath  tlie  magic  touch  of  genius,  no  more  to  do  with  each 
other  than  this  book  has  with  the  Stock  Exchange  !  Who 
would  have  dreamed  of  travelling  from  the  Tabard  in  Soutli- 
wark  to  the  last  new  singer,  via  Exeter-hall  and  the  lilies 
of  the  valley,  and  touching  en  passant  on  two  cardinal 
virtues  and  an  Irish  viscount?  But  see  ;  given  only  a  little 
impudence,  and  less  logic,  and,  hey  presto  !  the  thing  is 
done ;  and  all  that  remains  to  be  done  is  to  dilate  (as  the 
Rev.  Dionysius  O'iilareaway  would  do  at  this  stage  of  the 
process)  upon  the  moral  question  which  has  been  so  cun- 
ningly raised,  and  to  inquire,  firstly,  how  the  virtues  of 
meekness  and  humility  could  be  predicated  of  Frederic  Au- 
gustus St.  Just,  Viscount  Scoutbush  and  Baron  Torytown, 
in  the  peerage  of  Ireland ;  and,  secondly,  how  those 
virtues  were  called  into  special  action,  by  his  questionably 
wise  attachment  to  a  new  actress,  to  whom  he  had  never 
spoken  a  word  in  his  life. 

First,  then,  "Little  Freddy  Scoutbush,"  as  his  compeers 
irreverently  termed  him,  was,  by  common  consent  of  her 
majesty's  Guards,  a  "  good  fellow."  Whether  the  St. 
James's  Street  definition  of  that  adjective  be  the  perfect 
one  or  not,  we  will  not  stay  to  inquire ;  but  in  the  Guards' 
club-house  it  meant  this  :  that  Scoutbush  had  not  an  enemy 
in  the  world,  because  he  deserved  none  ;  that  he  lent,  and 
borrowed  not ;  gave,  and  asked  not  again  ;  envied  not ; 
hustled  not ;  slandered  not ;  never  bore  malice,  never  said 
a  cruel  word,  never  played  a  dirty  trick,  would  hear  a  fel- 
low's troubles  out  to  the  end,  and,  if  he  could  not  counsel, 
at  least  would  not  laugh  at  them,  and  at  all  times  and  in  all 
places  lived  and  let  live,  and  was  accordingly  a  general 
favorite.  His  morality  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
the  average  of  his  companions  ;  but,  if  he  was  sensual,  he 
was  at  least  not  base  ;  and  there  were  frail  women  who 
blessed  "little  Freddy  "  and  his  shy  and  secret  generosity 
for  having  saved  them  from  the  lowest  pit. 

Au  reste,  he  was  idle,  frivolous,  useless  ;  but  with  these 
two  palliating  facts,  that  he  knew  it,  and  regretted  it ;  and 
that  he  never  had  a  chance  of  being  aught  else.  His  father 
and  mother  had  died  when  he  was  a  child.  He  had  been 
Bent  to  Eton  at  seven,  where  he  learnt  nothing,  and  into  the 
Guards  at  seventeen,  where  he  learnt  less  than  nothing 


LA    CORDIFIAMMA.  103 

tUs  aunt,  old  Lady  Knockdown,  who  was  a  kind  old 
Irish  Avoman,  an  ex-blue  and  ex-beauty,  now  a  high  Evan- 
g-elical  professor,  but  as  worldly  as  her  neighbors  in  prac- 
tice, had  tried  to  make  him  a  good  boy  in  old  times  ;  but 
she  had  given  him  up,  long  before  he  left  Eton,  as  a  "ves- 
sel of  wrath"  (which  he  certainly  was,  with  his  hot  Irish 
temper);  and  since  then  she  had  only  spoken  of  him  with 
moans,  and  to  him  just  as  if  he  and  she  had  made  a  compact 
to  be  as  worldly  as  they  could,  and  as  if  the  ftict  that  he 
was  going,  as  she  used  to  tell  her  private  friends,  straight 
to  a  certain  place,  was  to  be  utterly  ignored  before  the 
pressing  reality  of  getting  him  and  his  sisters  well  married. 
And  so  it  befell,  that  Lad}'^  Knockdown,  like  many  more, 
having  begun  with  too  high  (or  at  least  precise)  a  spiritual 
standard,  was  foi'ced  to  end  practically  in  having  no  stand- 
ard at  all ;  and  that  for  ten  years  of  Scoutbush's  life,  nei- 
ther she  nor  any  other  human  being  had  spoken  to  him  as 
if  he  had  a  soul  to  be  saved,  or  any  duty  on  earth  save 
to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry. 

And  all  the  while  there  was  a  quaint  and  pathetic  con- 
sciousness in  the  little  man's  heart  that  he  was  meant  for 
something  better  ;  that  he  was  no  fool,  and  was  not  in- 
tended to  be  one.  He  would  thrust  his  head  into  lectures 
at  the  Polytechnic  and  the  British  Institution,  with  a  dim  en- 
deavor to  guess  what  they  were  all  about,  and  a  good- 
natured  envy  of  the  clever  fellows  who  knew  about  "sci- 
ence, and  all  that."  lie  would  sit  and  listen,  puzzled  and 
admiring,  to  the  talk  of  statesmen,  and  confide  his  woe 
afterwards  to  some  chum.  —  "  Ah,  if  I  had  had  the  chance 
now  that  my  cousin  Chalkclere  has  !  If  I  had  had  two  or 
three  tutors,  and  a  good  mother,  too,  keeping  me  in  a  coop, 
and  cramming  me  with  learning,  as  they  cram  chickens  for 
the  market,  I  fancy  I  could  have  shown  my  comb  and 
hackles  in  the  House  as  well  as  some  of  them.  I  fancy  I 
could  make  a  speech  in  Parliament  now,  with  the  help  of  a 
little  Irish  impudence,  if  I  only  knew  anything  to  speak 
about." 

So  Scoutbush  clung,  in  a  childish  way,  to  any  superior 
man  who  would  take  notice  of  him,  and  not  treat  him  as  the 
fribble  which  he  seemed.  He  had  taken  to  that  well-known 
artist,  Claude  Mellot,  of  late,  simply  from  admiration  of  his 
brilliant  talk  about  art  and  poetry,  and  boldly  confessed 
that  he  preferred  one  of  Mellot's  orations  on  the  sublime  and 
beautiful,  though  he  didn't  understand  a  word  of  them,  to 
the  songs  and  jokes  (very  excellent  ones  in  their  way)  of 


104  LA    CORDIFIAMMA. 

Mr.  Hector  Ilarkaway,  the  distingnislied  Irish  novelist,  and 
boon  companion  of  her  majesty's  Life  Guards  Green.  His 
special  intimate  and  mentor,  however,  was  a  certain  Majoi 
Oampljoll,  of  wliom  more  hereafter;  who,  however,  Lxiing  a 
lolty-iuinded  and  perhaps  somewhat  Pharisaic  person,  made 
heavier  demands  on  Scoutbush's  conscience  than  he  had  yet 
been  able  to  meet ;  for,  fully  as  he  agreed  that  Hercules' 
choice  between  pleasure  and  virtue  was  the  right  one, 
yet  he  could  not  yet  follow  that  ancient  hero  along  the 
thorny  path,  and  confined  his  conception  of  "duty"  to  the 
minimum  guard  and  drill.  He  had  estates  in  Ireland,  which 
had  almost  cleared  themselves  during  his  long  minority,  but 
which,  since  the  famine,  had  cost  him  about  as  much  as  they 
brought  him  in  ;  and  estates  in  the  West,  which  with  a 
Welsh  slate-quarry  brouglit  him  in  some  seven  or  eight 
thousand  a  year,  and  so  kept  his  poor  little  head  above 
water,  to  look  pitifully  round  the  universe,  longing  for  the 
life  of  him  to  make  out  what  it  all  meant,  and  hoping  that 
somebody  would  come  and  tell  him. 

So  much  for  his  meekness  and  humility  in  general ;  as  for 
the  particular  display  of  those  virtues  which  he  has  shown 
to-day,  it  must  be  understood  that  he  has  given  a  promise 
to  Mrs.  Mellot  not  to  make  love  to  La  Cordifiamma  ;  and, 
on  that  only  condition,  has  been  allowed  to  meet  her  to- 
night at  one  of  Claude  Mellot's  petits  soupers! 

La  Cordifiamma  has  been  staying,  ever  since  she  came  to 
England,  with  the  Mellots,  in  the  wilds  of  Brompton ; 
unapproachable  there,  as  in  all  other  places.  In  public,  she 
is  a  very  Zenobia,  who  keeps  all  animals  of  the  other  sex  at 
an  awful  distance  ;  and  of  the  fifty  young  puppies  who  are 
raving  about  her  beauty,  her  air,  and  her  voice,  not  one  has 
obtained  an  introduction  ;  while  Claude,  whose  studio  used 
to  be  a  favorite  lounge  of  young  guardsmen,  has,  as  civilly 
as  he  can,  closed  his  doors  to  those  magnificent  personages 
ever  since  the  new  singer  became  his  guest. 

Claude  Mellot  seems  to  have  come  in  to  a  fortune  of  late 
years,  large  enough,  at  least,  for  his  few  wants.  He  paini? 
nn  longer,  save  when  he  chooses  ;  and  has  taken  a  little 
old  house  in  one  of  those  back  lanes  of  Brompton,  where 
islands  of  primeval  nursery  garden  still  remain  undevoured 
►■»y  the  advancing  surges  of  the  brick  and  mortar  deluge. 
There  he  lives,  happy  in  a  green  lawn,  and  windows  open- 
ing thereon  ;  in  three  elms,  a  cork,  an  ilex,  and  a  mulberry, 
with  a  great  standard  pear,  for  flower  and  foliage  the  queen 
Df  all  subm-ban  trees.     There  he  lies  on  the  lawn,  upoD 


LA    CORDIFIAMMA.  105 

Btiange  skins,  the  summer's  day,  playing  with  cats  and 
dogs,  and  making  love  to  Sabina,  who  has  not  lost  her 
beauty  in  the  least,  though  she  is  on  the  wrong  side  of  five- 
and-thirty.  He  deludes  himself,  too,  into  the  belief  that  he 
is  doing  something,  because  he  is  writing  a  treatise  on  the 
"  Principles  of  Beauty  ;  "  which  will  be  published,  probably, 
about  the  time  the  Thames  is  purified,  in  the  season  of  Lat- 
ter Lammas  and  the  Greek  Kalends  ;  and  the  more  certainly 
as,  because  he  has  wandered  into  the  abyss  of  conic  sec- 
tions and  curves  of  double  curvature,  of  which,  if  the  trutb 
must  be  spoken,  he  knows  no  more  than  his  friends  of  the 
Life  Guards  Green. 

To  this  charming  little  nest  has  Lord  Scoutbush  procured 
an  evening's  admission,  after  abject  supplication  to  Sabina, 
who  pets  liim  because  he  is  musical,  and  solemn  promises 
neither  to  talk  nor  look  any  manner  of  foolishness. 

"  My  dearest  M-rs.  Mellot,"  says  the  poor  wretch,  "  I 
will  be  good,  indeed  I  will ;  I  will  not  even  speak  to  her. 
Only  let  me  sit  and  look,  —  and  —  and,  —  why,  I  thought 
you  understood  all  about  such  things,  and  could  pity  a  poor 
fellow  who  was  spoony." 

And  Sabina,  who  prides  herself  much  on  understanding 
such  things,  and  on  having,  indeed,  reduced  them  to  a 
science  in  which  she  gives  gratuitous  lessons  to  all  young 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  receives  him 
pityingly,  in  that  delicious  little  back  drawing-room, 
whither  whosoever  enters  is  hi  no  hurry  to  go  out  again. 

Claude's  house  is  arranged  with  his  usual  defiance  of  all 
conventionalities.  Dining  or  drawing  room  proper  there  is 
none  ;  the  large  front  room  is  the  studio,  where  he  and 
Sabina  eat  and  drink,  as  well  as  work  and  paint ;  but  out 
of  it  opens  a  little  room,  the  walls  of  which  ai'e  so  covered 
with  gems  of  art,  —  (where  the  rogue  finds  money  to  buy 
them  is  a  puzzle),  —  that  the  eye  can  turn  nowhere  without 
taking  in  some  new  beauty,  and  wandering  on  from  picture 
to  statue,  from  portrait  to  landscape,  dreaming  and  learnino" 
afresh  after  every  glance.  At  the  back,  a  glass  bay  has 
becui  thrown  out,  and  forms  a  little  conservatory,  forever 
fresh  and  gay  with  tropic  ferns  and  flowers  ;  gaudy  orchids 
dangle  from  the  roof,  creepers  hide  the  framework,  and  you 
hardly  see  where  the  room  ends,  and  the  winter-garden 
begins  ;  and  in  the  centre  an  ottoman  invites  you  to  lounge. 
It  Costs  Claude  money,  doubtless  ;  but  he  has  his  excuse, — 
"  Having  once  seen  the  tropics,  I  cannot  live  without  some 
love-tokens  from  their   lost  paradises  ;    and  which  is   the 


106  LA    CORDIPIAMMA. 

wiser  plan,  to  spend  money  on  a  horse  and  hroughirh, 
W'hich  we  don't  care  to  use,  and  on  scrambling  into  society 
at  the  price  of  one  g'reat  stupid  party  a  year,  or  to  make 
our  little  world  as  pretty  as  wo  can,  and  let  those  who  wish 
to  see  us  take  us  as  they  find  us  ?  " 

In  this  "  nest,"  as  Claude  and  Sabina  call  it,  sacred  to  the 
everlasting  billing  and  cooing  of  that  sweet  little  pair  of 
human  love-birds  who  have  built  it,  was  supper  set.  La 
uordifiamma,  all  the  more  beautiful  from  the  languor  pro- 
luced  by  the  excitement  of  acting,  lay  upon  a  sofa  :  Claude 
ittended,  talking  earnestly  ;  Sabina,  according  to  her  cus- 
tom, was  fluttering  in  and  out,  and  arranging  supper  with 
her  own  hands  ;  both  husband  and  wife  were  as  busy  as 
bees  ;  and  yet  any  one  accustomed  to  watch  the  little  ins 
and  outs  of  married  life,  could  have  seen  that  neither  forgot 
for  a  moment  that  the  other  was  in  the  room,  but  basked 
and  purred,  like  two  blissful  cats,  each  in  the  sunshine  of 
the  other's  presence  ;  and  he  could  have  seen,  too,  that  La 
Cordifiamma  was  divining  their  thoughts,  and  studying  all 
its  little  expressions,  perhaps  that  she  might  use  them  on 
the  stage  ;  perhaps,  too,  happy  in  sympathy  with  their  hap- 
piness ;  and  yet  there  was  a  shade  of  sadness  on  her  fore- 
head. 

Scoutbush  enters,  is  introduced,  and  receives  a  salutation 
from  the  actress  haughty  and  cold  enough  to  check  the  for- 
wardest ;  puts  on  the  air  of  languid  nonchalance,  which  is 
considered  —  or  was  before  the  little  experiences  of  the 
Crimea  —  fit  and  proper  for  young  gentlemen  of  rank  and 
fashion.  So  he  sits  down,  and  feasts  his  foolish  eyes  upon 
his  idol,  hoping  for  a  few  words  before  the  evening  is  over. 
Did  I  not  say  well,  then,  that  there  was  as  much  meekness 
and  humility  under  Scoutbush's  white  cravat  as  under 
others  ?  But  his  little  joy  is  soon  dashed  ;  for  the  black 
boy  announces  —  seemingly  much  to  his  own  pleasure  —  a 
tall  personage,  whom,  from  his  dress  and  moustachio, 
Scoutbush  takes  for  a  Frenchman,  till  he  hears  him  called 
Stangrave.  The  intruder  is  introduced  to  Lord  Scout- 
bush, which  ceremony  is  consummated  by  a  microscopic 
nod  on  either  side  ;  he  then  walks  straight  up  to  La 
Cordifiamma ;  and  Scoutbush  sees  her  checks  flush  as  he 
does  so.  He  takes  her  hand,  speaks  to  her  in  a  low  voice, 
and  sits  down  by  her,  Claude  making  room  for  him  ;  and 
the  two  engage  earnestly  in  conversation. 

Scoutbush  is  much  'inclined  to  walk  out  of  the  room  — 
was  he  brought  there  to  see  that  ?     Of  course,  however,  he 


LA    CORDIFIAMMA.  107 

sits  still,  keeps  his  own  counsel,  and  makes  himself  agree- 
able enough  all  the  evening,  like  a  good-natured,  kind-hearted 
little  man,  as  he  is.  Whereby  he  is  repaid  ;  for  the  conver- 
sation soon  becomes  deep,  and  even  too  deep  for  him,  and  lie 
is  fain  to  drop  out  of  the  race,  and  leave  it  to  his  idol  and  to 
the  new  comer,  who  seems  to  have  seen,  and  done,  and  read 
everything  in  heaven  and  earth,  and  probably  bought  every- 
thing also  ;  not  to  mention  that  he  would  be  happy  to  seil 
the  said  universe  again,  at  a  very  cheap  price,  if  any  one 
would  kindly  take  it  off  his  hands.  Not  that  he  boasts,  or 
takes  any  undue  share  of  the  conversation  ;  he  is  evidently 
too  well-bred  for  that ;  but  every  sentence  shows  an  acquaint- 
ance with  facts  of  which  Eton  has  told  Scoutbush  nothing, 
the  barrack-room  less,  and  after  which  he  still  craves,  tlie 
good  little  fellow,  in  a  very  honest  way,  and  would  soon 
have  learnt,  had  he  had  a  chance  ;  for  of  native  Irish  smart- 
ness he  had  no  lack. 

"  Poor  Flake  was  half  mad  about  you,  Marie,  in  the  stage- 
box  to-night,"  said  Sabina.  "He  says  that  he  shall  not 
sleep  till  he  has  painted  you." 

"Do  let  him  I"  cried  Scoutbush:  "what  a  picture  he 
will  make !  " 

"  He  may  paint  a  picture,  but  not  me  ;  it  is  qixite  enough, 
Lord  Scoutbush,  to  be  some  one  else  for  two  hours  every 
night,  without  going  down  to  posterity  as  some  one  else 
forever.  If  I  am  painted,  I  will  be  painted  by  no  one  who 
cannot  represent  my  very  self" 

"You  are  right  1"  said  Stan  grave  ;  "and  you  will  do 
the  man  himself  good  by  refusing  ;  he  has  some  notion  still  of 
what  a  portrait  ought  to  be.  If  he  once  begins  by  attempt- 
ing passing  expressions  of  passion,  which  is  all  stage  por- 
traits can  give,  he  will  find  them  so  much  easier  than  honest 
representations  of  character,  that  he  will  end,  where  all  our 
moderns  seem  to  do,  in  merest  melo-drama." 

"  Explain  !  "  said  she. 

"  Portrait-painters  now  depend  for  their  effect  on  the  mere 
accidents  of  the  entourage  ;  on  dress,  on  landscape,  even 
on  broad  hints  of  a  man's  occupation,  putting  a  plan  on  the 
engineer's  table,  and  a  roll  in  the  statesman's  hands,  like  the 
old  Greek  who  wrote  '  this  is  an  ox '  under  his  picture. 
If  they  wish  to  give  the  face  expression, —  though  they  sel- 
dom aim  so  high,  —  all  they  can  compass  is  a  passing  emo- 
tion ;  and  one  sitter  goes  down  to  posterity  with  an  eternal 
frown,  another  with  an  eternal  smile." 


108  LA    CORDIFIAMMA. 

"Or,  if  he  be  a  poet,"  said  Sabiua,  "  rolls  his  eye  forevei 
in  a  fine  frenzy." 

"  But  would  you  forbid  them  to  paint  passion  ?" 

"  Not  in  its  place  ;  when  the  picture  gives  the  causes  of 
the  passion,  and  the  scene  tells  its  own  story.  But,  then, 
let  us  not  have  merely  Kean  as  Hamlet,  but  Hamlet's  self; 
let  the  painter  sit  down  and  conceive  for  himself  a  Hamlet, 
such  as  Shakspeare  conceived  ;  not  merely  give  us  as  much 
of  him  as  could  be  pressed  at  a  given  moment  into  the  face 
of  Mr.  Kean.  He  will  be  only  unjust  to  both  actor  and 
character.  If  Flake  paints  Marie  as  Lady  Macbeth,  he  will 
give  us  neither  her  nor  Lady  Macbeth  ;  but  only  the  single 
point  at  which  their  characters,  too,  can  coincide." 

"  How  rude  !  "  said  Sabina,  laughing  ;  "  what  is  he  doing 
but  hinting  that  Marie's  conception  of  Lady  Macbeth  is  a 
very  partial  and  imperfect  one  ?  " 

"  And  why  should  it  not  be  ?  "  asked  the  actress,  humbly 
enough. 

"  1  meant,"  he  answered  warmly,  "that  there  was  more, 
far  more  in  her  than  in  any  character  which  she  assumes  ; 
and  I  do  not  want  a  painter  to  copy  only  one  aspect,  and 
let  a  part  go  down  to  posterity  as  a  representation  of  the 
whole." 

"  If  you  mean  that,  you  shall  be  forgiven.  No  ;  when  she 
is  painted,  she  shall  be  painted  as  herself,  as  she  is  now. 
Claude  shall  paint  her." 

"  I  have  not  known  La  Signora  long  enough,"  said  Claude, 
"  to  aspire  to  such  an  honor.  I  paint  no  face  which  I  have 
not  studied  for  a  year." 

"Faith!  "  said  Scoutbush,  "you  would  find  no  more  in 
most  faces  at  the  year's  end,  than  you  did  the  first  day."_ 

"  Then  I  would  not  paint  them.  If  1  paint  a  portrait, 
which  I  seldom  do,  I  wish  to  make-it  such  a  one  as  the  old 
masters  aimed  at,  —  to  give  the  sum  total  of  the  whole  char- 
acter ;  traces  of  every  emotion,  if  it  were  possible,  and 
•glances  of  every  expression  which  have  passed  over  it  since 
it  was  born  into  the  world.  They  are  all  here,  the  whole 
past  and  future  of  the  man;  and  every  man,  as  the  Moham- 
medans say,  carries  his  destiny  on  his  forehead." 

"  But  wlio  has  eyes  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  The  old  masters  had  ;  some  of  them,  at  least.  Raphael 
had  ;  Sebastian  del  Piombo  had  ;  and  Titian,  and  Gior- 
gione.  There  are  portraits  painted  b}  them  Avhich  carry  a 
whole  life-histor;y  concentrated  into  one  moment." 

"  But    they,''    paid    Stangrave,    "  are    the    portraits   of 


LA    CORDIFIAMMA.  109 

rat*n  such  as  they  saw  around  them  :  natures  who  were 
strong'  for  good  and  evil,  who  were  not  ashamed  to  show 
their  strength.  Where  will  a  painter  find  such  among  the 
poor,  thin,  unable  mortals  who  come  to  him  to  buy  immor- 
tality at  a  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  a  piece,  after  having 
spent  their  lives  in  religiously  rubbing  off  their  angles 
against  each  other  and  forming  their  characters,  as  you 
form_shot,  by  shaking  them  together  in  a  bag  till  they  have 
polished  each  other  into  dullest  uniformity  ?  " 

"  It 's  very  true,"  said  Scoutbush,  who  suffered  much  at 
times  from  a  certain  wild  Irish  vein,  which  stirred  him  up 
to  kick  over  the  traces.  "  People  are  horribly  Hke  each 
other  ;  and  if  a  poor  fellow  is  bored,  and  tries  to  do  anything 
spicy  or  original,  he  has  half-a-dozen  people  pooh-poohing 
him  down  on  the  score  of  bad  taste." 

"  Men  can  be  just  as  original  now  as  ever,"  said  La 
Signora,  "if  they  had  but  the  courage,  even  the  insight. 
Heroic  souls  in  old  times  had  no  more  opportunities  than  we 
have  ;  but  they  used  them.  There  were  daring  deeds  to  be 
done  then  —  are  there  none  now  ?  Sacrifices  to  be  made 
—  are  there  none  now  ?  Wrongs  to  be  redressed  —  are 
there  none  now  ?  Let  any  one  set  his  heart,  in  these  days, 
to  do  what  is  right,  and  nothing  else  ;  and  it  will  not  be 
long  ere  his  brow  is  stamped  with  all  that  goes  to  make  up 
the  heroical  expression — with  noble  indignation,  noble 
self-restraint,  great  hopes,  great  sorrows  ;  perhaps,  even, 
with  the  print  of  the  martyr's  crown  of  thorns." 

She  looked  at  Stangrave  as  she  spoke,  with  an  expression 
which  Scoutbush  tried  in  vain  to  read.  The  American  made 
no  answer,  and  seemed  to  hang  his  head  a  while.  After  a 
minute  he  said,  tenderly  : 

"  You  will  tire  yourself  if  you  talk  thus,  after  the  even- 
ing's fatigue.  Sabina  will  sing  to  us,  and  give  us  leisure 
to  think  over  our  lesson." 

And  Sabina  sang  ;  and  then  Lord  Scoutbush  was  made  to 
sing  ;  and  sang  his  best,  no  doubt. 

So  the  evening  slipped  on,  till  it  was  past  eleven  o'clock, 
and  Stangrave  rose.  "And  now,"  said  he,  "  I  must  go  to 
Lady  M 's  ball  ;  and  Marie  must  rest." 

As  he  went,  he  just  leaned  over  La  Cordifiamma.  "  Shall 
I  jome  in  to-morrow  morning  ?  We  ought  to  read  over  that 
Bcene  together  before  the  rehearsal." 

"Early  then,  or  Sabina  will  be  gone  out  ;  and  she  must 
play  Boubrette  to  our  hero  and  heroine." 
10 


110  LA    CORDIFIAMMA. 

"  You  will  rest  ?  Mrs.  Mellot,  you  will  see  that  she 
does  not  sit  up." 

"  It  is  not  very  polite  to  rob  us  of  her,  as  soon  as  you 
cannot  enjoy  her  yourself." 

"  I  must  take  care  of  people  who  do  not  take  care  of 
themselves  ;  "  and  Stangrave  departed. 

Great  was  Scoutbush's  wrath  when  he  saw  the  actress  rise 
and  obey  orders.  "  Who  was  this  man  ?  what  right  had  he 
to  command  her  ?  " 

lie  asked  as  much  of  Sabina  the  moment  La  Cordiliamma 
had  retired. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  Lady  M 's,  too  ?  " 

"  No  ;  that  is,  1  won't  go  yet ;  not  till  you  have  explained 
ail  this  to  me." 

"  Explained  what?  "  asked  Sabina,  looking  as  demure  as 
a  little  brown  mouse. 

"  Why,  what  did  you  ask  me  here  for  ?  " 

"  Lord  Scoutbush  should  recollect  that  he  asked  him- 
self." 

"  You  cruel,  venomous  creature  !  Do  you  think  I  would 
have  come  if  I  had  known  that  I  was  to  see  another  man 
making  love  to  her  before  my  very  eyes  ?  1  could  kill  the 
fellow  ;  —  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  A  New  York  merchant,  unworthy  of  your  aristocratic 
powder  and  ball." 

"  The  conl'ounded  Yankee  !  "  muttered  Scoutbush. 

"  (f  people  swear  in  my  house  1  fine  them  a  dozen  of  kid 
gloves.  Did  you  not  promise  me  that  you  would  not  make 
love  to  her  yourself?  " 

"Well  —  but  it  is  too  cruel  of  you,  before  my  very 
eyes." 

"  I  saw  no  love-making  to-night  ?  " 

"None?     Were  you  blind  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but  you  cannot  well  see  a  thing  ruaking 
which  has  been  made  long  ago." 

"  What!     Is  he  her  husband  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Engaged  to  her  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  then  ?   ' 

"  Don't  you  know  already  that  this  is  a  house  of  mystery, 
full  of  mysterious  people  ?  I  tell  you  this  only,  that  if  she 
ever  marries  any  one,  she  will  marry  him  ;  and  that,  if  I  can. 
I  will  make  her." 

"  Then  you  are  my  enemy,  after  all  ? " 


LA    CORDIFIAMMA.  Ill 


II 


I  ?  Do  you  think  that  Sabina  Mellot  can  see  a  young 
riscount  loose  upon  the  universe,  without  trying  to  make  up 
a  match  for  him?  No;  I  have  such  a  prize  for  you, — 
young,  handsome,  better  educated  than  any  woman  whom 
you  will  meet  to-niglit.  True,  she  is  a  Manchester  girl ; 
but  then  she  has  eighty  thousand  pounds." 

"  Eighty  thousand  nonsense !  I  'd  sooner  have  that 
divine  creature  without  a  penny,  than  —  " 

"  And  would  my  lord  viscount  so  far  debase  himself  as  to 
marry  an  actress  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  Faith,  my  grandmother  was  an  actress  ;  and 
we  St.  Justs  are  none  the  worse  for  that  fact,  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  —  and  certainly  none  the  uglier,  —  the  women,  at  least. 
0,  Sabina,  —  Mrs.  Mellot,  I  mean,  —  only  help  me  this 
once  !  " 

"  This  once  ?  Do  you  intend  to  marry  by  my  assistance 
this  time,  and  by  your  own  the  next  ?  How  many  viscount- 
esses are  there  to  be  ?  " 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  you  little  fiend,  you  don't  know; 
you  fancy  that  I  am  not  in  love  ;  "  —  and  the  poor  fellow 
began  pouring  out  those  commonplaces,  which  one  has 
heard  too  often  to  take  the  trouble  of  repeating,  and  yet 
which  are  real  enough,  and  pathetic  too  ;  for  in  every  man, 
however  frivolous,  or  even  worthless,  love  calls  up  to  the 
surface  the  real  heroism,  the  I'eal  depth  of  character  —  all 
the  more  deep  because  common  to  poet  and  philosopher, 
guardsman  and  country  clod. 

"  I  '11  leave  town  to-mori'ow.  I  '11  go  to  the  Land's-end, 
—  to  Norway,  —  to  Africa  —  " 

"  And  forget  her  in  the  bliss  of  lion-hunting." 

"  Don't,  I  tell  you  !  here  I  will  not  stay  to  be  driven  mad. 
To  think  that  she  is  here,  and  that  hateful  Yankee  at  her 
elbow!    I'll  go  —  " 

"  To  Lady  M -^'s  ball  ?  " 

"  No,  confound  it ;  to  meet  that  fellow  there  !  I  should 
quari'el  with,  him,  as  sure  as  there  is  hot  Irish  bkod  in  my 
veins.  The  self-satisfied  puppy !  to  be  flirting  and  strutting 
there,  while  such  a  creature  as  that  is  lying  thinking  of 
him." 

"  Would  you  have  him  shut  himself  up  in  his  hotel,  and 
write  poetry  ;  or  walk  the  streets  all  night,  sighing  at  the 
moon  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  the  cool  way  in  which  he  went  off  himself,  and 
Bent  her  to  bed.  Confound  him  !  commanding  her.  It  made 
my  blood  boil." 


112  LA   CORDIFIAMMA. 

"Claude,  get  Lord  Scoutbush  some  iced  soda-water." 

"  If  you  laugh  at  me,  I  '11  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"  Or  buy  any  of  Claude's  pictures  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  torment  me  so  ?  I'll  ga,  I  say,  —  leave 
town  to-morrow, — only  I  can't  with  this  horrid  depot  work  ! 
What  shall  I  do  ?  It's  too  cruel  of  you,  while  Campbell 
is  away  in  Ireland,  too  ;  and  I  have  not  a  soul  but  you  to 
ask  advice  of,  for  Valencia  is  as  great  a  goose  as  I  am  ;  " — 
and  the  poor  little  fellow  buried  his  hands  in  his  curls,  and 
etared  fiercely  into  the  fire,  as  if  to  draw  from  thence  omens 
of  his  love,  by.  the  spodomantic  augury  of  tlie  ancient  Greeks  ; 
while  Sabina  tripped  up  and  down  the  room,  putting  things 
to  rights  for  the  night,  and  enjoying  his  torments  as  a  cat 
does  those  of  the  mouse  between  her  paws  ;  and  yet  not  out 
of  spite,  but  from  pure  and  simple  fun. 

Sabina  is  one  of  those  charming  bodies  who  knows  every- 
body's business,  and  manages  it.  She  lives  in  a  world  of 
intrigue,  but  without  a  thought  of  intriguing  for  her'  own 
benefit.  She  has  always  a  match  to  make,  a  disconsolate 
lover  to  comfort,  a  young  artist  to  bring  forward,  a  refugee 
to  conceal,  a  spendthrift  to  get  out  of  a  scrape  ;  and,  like 
David  in  the  mountains,  "everyone  that  is  discontented, 
and  every  one  that  is  in  debt,  gather  themselves  to  her." 
The  strangest  people,  on  the  strangest  errands,  run  over 
each  other  in  that  cosey  little  nest  of  hers.  Fine  ladies  with 
over-full  hearts,  and  seedy  gentlemen  with  over-empty  pock- 
ets, jostle  each  other  at  her  door  ;  and  she  has  a  smile,  and 
a  repartee,  and  good,  cunning,  practical  wisdom  for  each 
and  every  one  of  them,  and  then  dismisses  them  to  bill  and 
coo  with  Claude,  and  laugh  over  everybody  and  everything. 
The  only  price  which  she  demands  for  her  services  is,  to  be 
allowed  to  laugh  ;  and,  if  that  be  permitted,  she  will  be  as 
busy,  and  earnest,  and  tender,  as  Saint  Elizabeth  herself. 
"  I  have  no  children  of  my  own,"  she  says,  "  so  1  just  make 
everybody  my  children,  Claude  included  ;  and  play  with 
them,  and  laugh  at  them,  and  pet  them,  and  help  them  out 
of  their  scrapes,  just  as  I  should  if  they  were  in  my  own 
nursery."  And  so  it  befalls  that  she  is  every  one's  confi- 
dant ;  and  though  every  one  seems  on  the  point  of  taking 
liberties  with  her,  yet  no  one  does  ;  partly  because  they  are 
in  her  power,  and  partly  because,  like  an  Eastern  sultana, 
she  carries  a  poniard,  and  can  use  it,  though  only  in  self- 
defence.  So,  if  great  people,  or  small  people  either  (who 
can  give  themselves  airs  as  well  as  their  betters),  take  her 
plain-speaking  unkiudly,  she  just  speaks  a  little  more  plainly 


LA    COEDIFIAMMA.  IIH 

OTiCG  for  all,  and  goes  off  smiling  to  some  one  else  ;  as  a 
humming-bird,  if  a  flower  has  no  honey  in  it,  whirs  away, 
with  a  saucy  flirt  of  its  pretty  little  tail,  to  the  next  branch 
on  the  bush. 

"  I  must  know  more  of  this  American,"  said  Scoutbush, 
at  last. 

"  Well,  he  would  be  very  improving  company  for  you  ; 
and  I  know  you  like  improving  company." 

"  I  mean  —  what  has  he  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  will  not  tell  you.  One  thing  I  will 
tell  you,  though,  for  it  may  help  to  quench  any  vain  hopes 
on  your  pai't ;  and  that  is,  the  reason  which  she  gives  for 
not  marrying  him." 

"  Well  ? " 

"Because  he  is  an  idler." 

"  What  would  she  say  of  me,  then  ?  "  groaned  Scout- 
bush. 

"  Very  true  ;  for,  you  must  understand,  this  Mr.  Stan- 
grave  is  not  what  you  or  I  should  call  an  idle  man.  He  has 
travelled  over  half  the  world,  and  made  the  best  use  of  his 
eyes.  He  has  filled  his  house  in  New  Yoi'k,  they  say,  with 
gems  of  art  gathered  from  every  country  in  Europe.  He  is 
a  finished  scholar  ;  talks  half-a-dozen  different  languages, 
sings,  draws,  writes  poetry,  reads  hard  every  day,  at  every 
subject,  from  gardening  to  German  metaphysics  —  alto- 
gether, one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  men  I  know,  and 
quite  an  Admirable  Crichton  in  his  wa3^" 

"  Then  why  does  she  call  him  an  idler  ?  " 

"  Because,  she  saj's,  he  has  no  great  purpose  in  life.  She 
will  marry  no  one  who  will  not  devote  himself,  and  all  he 
has,  to  some  great,  chivalrous,  heroic  enterprise  ;  whose 
one  object  is  to  be  of  use,  even  if  lie  has  to  sacrifice  his  life 
to  it.  She  says  that  there  must  be  such  men  still  left  in 
the  world  ;  and  that  if  she  finds  one,  him  she  will  marry, 
and  no  one  else." 

"  Why,  there  are  none  such  to  be  found  now-a-days,  I 
thought  ?  " 

"  You  heard  what  she  herself  said  on  that  very  point." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  Scoutbush  had 
heard,  and  was  pondering  it  in  his  heart.     At  last,  — 

"I  am  not  cut  out  for  a  hero ;  so  I  suppose  I  must  give 
her  up.      But  I  wish  sometimes   I   could  be  of  use,  Mrs 
Mellot ;  but  what  can  a  fellow  do  ?  " 

"  I  thought  there  was  an  Irish  tenantry  to  be  looked  after 
my  lord,  and  a  Cornish  tenantry  too." 
10* 


114  LA    CORDIFIAMMA. 

"  That 's  what  Campbell  is  always  saying :  but  what  more 
can  I  do  than  I  do  ?  As  for  those  poor  Paddies,  I  never  ask 
them  for  rent ;  if  I  did,  I  should  not  get  it ;  so  there  is  no 
generosity  in  that.  And  as  for  the  Aberalva  people,  they 
have  got  on  very  well  without  me  for  twenty  years  ;  and  I 
don't  know  them,  nor  what  they  want;  nor  even  if  they  do 
want  anything,  except  fish  enough,  and  I  can't  put  more  fish 
into  the  sea,  Mrs.  Mellot." 

"Try  and  be  a  good  soldier,  then,"  said  she,  laughing.' 
"  Why  should  not  Lord  Scoutbush  emulate  his  illustrious 
countryman,   conquer   at   a   second   Waterloo,    and   die    a 
duke  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  cut  out  for  a  general,  I  am  afraid  ;  but  if — I 
don't  say  if  I  could  marry  that  woman  —  I  suppose  it  would 
be  a  foolish  thing — though  I  shall  break  my  heart,  I  believe, 
if  I  do  not.  0,  Sabina,  you  cannot  tell  what  a  fool  I  have 
made  mj^self  about  her  ;  and  I  cannot  help  it !  It 's  not  her 
beauty  merely  ;  but  there  is  something  so  noble  in  her  face, 
like  one  of  those  Greek  goddesses  Claude  talks  of;  and  when 
she  is  acting,  if  she  has  to  say  anything  grand,  or  generous, 
or  —  you  know  the  sort  of  thing  —  she  brings  it  out  with 
such  a  voice,  and  such  a  look,  from  the  very  bottom  of  her 
heart,  it  makes  me  shudder ;  just  as  she  did  when  she  told 
that  Yankee,  that  every  one  could  be  a  hero,  or  a  martyr, 
if  he  chose.  Mrs.  Mellot,  1  am  sure  she  is  one,  or  she  could 
Dot  look  and  speak  as  she  does." 

"  She  is  one!"  said  Sabina;  "a  heroine,  and  a  martyr 
too." 

"  If  I  could,  —  that  was  what  I  was  going  to  say,  —  if  I 
could  but  win  that  woman's  respect  —  as  1  live,  I  ask  no 
more  ;  only  to  be  sure  she  did  n't  despise  me.  I  'd  do  —  I 
don't  know  what  I  would  n't  do.  I  'd  —  I  'd  study  the  art 
of  war ;  I  know  there  are  books  about  it.  I  'd  get  out  to 
the  East,  away  from  this  depot  work  ;  and  if  there  is  no 
fighting  there,  as  every  one  says  there  will  not  be,  I  'd  go 
into  a  marching  x'egiment,  and  see  service.  I  'd,  —  hang  it, 
if  they'd  have  me,  —  I'd  even  go  to  the  senior  department 
at  Sandhurst,  and  read  mathematics  !  " 

Sabina  kept  her  countenance  (though  with  difficulty)  at 
this  magnificent  bathos  ;  for  she  saw  that  the  little  man  was 
really  in  earnest ;  and  that  the  looks  and  words  of  the  strange 
actress  had  awakened  in  him  something  far  deeper  and  noblei 
than  the  mere  sensual  passion  of  a  boy. 

"  Ah,  if  I  had  but  gone  out  to  Yarna  with  the  rest  I  I 
tiioaght  myself  a  lucky  fellow  to  be  left  here." 


LA    CORDIFIAMMA.  115 

^  Do  yoii  know  that  it  is  getting  very  late  ?  " 

So  Frederick  Lord  Scoutbush  went  home  to  his  rooms, 
aad  there  sat  for  three  hours  and  more  with  his  feet  on  the 
fender,  rejecting  the  entreaties  of  Mr.  Bowie,  his  servant, 
either  to  have  something,  or  go  to  bed  ;  yea,  he  forgot  even 
to  smoke;  by  which  Mr.  Bowie  "jaloused "  that  he  was 
hit  very  hard  indeed,  but  made  no  remark,  being  a  Scotch- 
man, and  of  a  cautious  temperament. 

However,  from  that  night  Scoutbush  was  a  changed  man, 
and  tried  to  be  so.  He  read  of  nothing  but  sieges  and 
stockades,  brigade  evolutions  and  conical  bullets  ;  he  drilled 
his  men  till  he  was  an  abomination  in  their  eyes  and  a  wea- 
riness to  the  flesh  ;  only  every  evening  he  went  to  the 
theatre,  and  watched  La  Corditiamma  with  a  heavy  heart, 
and  then  went  home  to  bed  ;  for  the  little  man  had  good 
sense  enough  to  ask  Sabina  for  no  more  interviews  with 
her.  So  in  all  things  he  acquitted  himself  as  a  model  officer, 
and  excited  the  admiration  and  respect  of  Sergeant-Major 
MacArthur,  who  began  fishing  at  Bowie  to  discover  the 
cause  of  this  strange  metamorphosis  in  the  racketty  little 
Irishman. 

"  Your  master  seems  to  be  qualifying  himself  for  the 
adjutant's  post,  Mr.  Bowie.  I  'm  jalousing  he  's  fired  with 
martial  ardor  since  the  war  broke  out." 

To  which  Bowie,  being  a  brother  Scot,  answered  Scot- 
tice  by  a  crafty  paralogism  : 

"  I  've  always  held  it  as  my  opeeeenion  that  his  lordship 
is  a  youth  of  very  good  parts,  if  he  was  only  compelled  to 
employ  them." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

TAKING   ROOT. 

Whosoever  enjoys  the  sight  of  an  honest  man  doing  his 
work  well,  would  have  enjoyed  the  sight  of  Tom  Thurnall 
for  the  next  two  months.  In-doors  all  the  morning,  and 
out-of-doors  all  the  afternoon,  was  that  shrewd  and  good- 
natured  visage,  calling  up  an  answering  smile  on  every  face, 
and  leaving  every  heart  a  little  lighter  than  he  found  it. 
Puzzling  enough  it  was,  alike  to  Heale  and  to  lleadley, 
how  Tom  contrived,  as  if  by  magic,  to  gain  every  one's 
good  word  —  their  own  included.  For  Frank,  in  spite  of 
Tum's  questionable  opinions,  had  already  made  all  but  a 
confidant  of  the  doctor;  and  Heale,  in  spite  of  envy  and 
suspicion,  could  not  deny  that  the  young  man  was  a  very 
valuable  young  man,  if  he  was  n't  given  so  much  to  those 
new-fangled  notions  of  the  profession. 

By  which  terra  Heale  indicated  the,  to  him,  astounding 
fact,  that  T(nn  charged  the  patients  as  little,  instead  of  as 
much,  as  pcjssible,  and,  applying  to  medicine  the  principles 
of  an  en.igiitened  political  economy,  tried  to  increase  the 
demand  by  cheapening  the  supply. 

"  Which  is  revolutionary  ductrine,  sir,"  said  Heale  to 
Lieutenant  Jones,  over  tiie  brandy  and  water,  "  and  just 
like  what  the  Cobden  and  Bright  lot  used  to  talk,  and  have 
been  the  ruin  of  British  agriculture,  though  don't  say  I  said 
KO,  because  of  my  Lord  Minchampstead.  But,  conceive  my 
feelings,  sir,  as  the  father  of  a  family,  who  have  my  bread 
to  earn,  this  very  morning.  In  conies  old  Dame  Penaluna 
(which  is  good  pay,  I  know,  and  has  two  hundred  and  more 
out  on  a  merchant  brig)  for  something;  and  what  was  my 
feeHngs,  sir,  to  hear  this  young  party  deliver  himself  — 
'  Well,  ma'am,'  says  he,  as  I  am  a  living  man,  '  I  can  cure 
you,  if  you  like,  with  a  duzen  bottles  of  lotion  at  eighteen- 
pence  apiece  ;  but,  if  you  '11  take  my  advice,  you  '11  buy  two 
pennyworth  of  alum  down  street,  do  what  I  tell  you  with 
it,  and  cure  yourself     It's  robbery,  sir,  I  say;  all   these 

(116) 


TAKINO    ROOT.  Ill 

out-of  the- way  cheap  dodges,  which  aren't  in  the  pharma- 
copoeia, half  of  them  ;  it's  unprofessional,  sir  —  quackery." 

"  Tell  you  what,  doctor,  robbery  or  none,  1  '11  go  to  him 
to-morrow,  d'  ye  see,  if  I  live  as  long,  for  this  old  ailment 
of  mine.  I  never  told  you  of  it,  old  pill  and  potion,  for  fear 
of  a  swingeing  bill ;  but  just  grinned  and  bore  it,  d'ye  see." 

"There  it  is  again  !  "  cries  Heale,  in  despair.  "He'll 
ruin  me  !  " 

"  No,  he  won't,  and  you  know  it." 

"What  d'ye  think  he  served  me  last  week  ?  A  young- 
chap  comes  in,  consumptive,  he  said,  and  I  dare  say  he  's 
right  —  he  is  uncommonly  'cute  about  what  he  calls  diag- 
nosis. Says  he  '  You  ought  to  try  Cari'ageen  moss.  It 's 
an  old  drug,  but  it 's  a  good  one.'  There  was  a  drawer  full 
of  it  to  his  hand  ;  had  been  lying  there  any  time  this  ten 
years.  I  go  to  open  it ;  but  what  was  my  feelings  when  he 
goes  on,  as  cool  as  a  cucumber —  '  And  there  's  bushels  of 
it  here,'  says  he,  '  on  every  rock  ;  so,  if  you  '11  come  down 
with  me  at  low  tide  this  afternoon,  I  '11  show  you  the  trade, 
and  tell  you  how  to  boil  it.'  I  thought  I  should  have 
knocked  him  down." 

"  But  you  did  n't,"  said  Jones,  laughing  in  every  muscle 
of  his  bod3^  "  Tell  you  what,  doctor,  you've  got  a  treas- 
ui'e  ;  he's  just  getting  back  your  custom,  d'ye  see,  and 
when  he  's  done  that,  he  '11  lay  on  the  bills  sharp  enough. 
Why,  I  hear  he  's  up  at  Mrs.  Vavasour's  every  day." 

"  And  not  ten  shillings'  worth  of  medicine  sent  up  to  the 
house  any  week." 

"  He  charges  for  his  visits,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  he  I  If  you  '11  believe  me,  when  I  asked  him  if  he 
was  n't  going  to,  he  says,  says  he,  that  Mrs.  Vavasour's 
company  was  quite  payment  enough  for  him." 

"Shows  his  good  taste.  Why,  what  now,  Mary?"  as 
the  maid  opens  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall  wants  Mr.  Heale." 

"  Alwaj's  wanting  me,"  groans  Heale,  hugging  his  glass, 
"  driving  me  about  like  any  negro  slave.  Tell  him  to 
come  in." 

"Here,  doctor,"  says  the  lieutenant,  "I  want  you  to 
prescribe  for  me,  if  you  '11  do  it  gratis,  d'  ye  see.  Take 
Bome  brandy  and  water." 

"  Good  advice  costs  nothing,"  says  Tom,  filling  ;  "Mr. 
Ileale,  read  that  letter." 

And  the  lieutenant  details  his  ailments,  and   their  sup- 


118  TAKING    ROOT. 

poseJ  cause,  till  Heale  has  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Tom 
answer  — 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  That 's  not  what 's  the  matter  with  yon. 
I  '11  cure  you  for  half-a-crown,  and  toss  you  up  double  or 
quits."   . 

"  0  !  "  gToans  Ileale,  as  he  spells  away  over  the  letter,  — 

"  Lord  MiiK'hampstead,  having  been  informed  by  Mr. 
Armsworth  that  Mr.  Thuruall  is  now  in  the  neighborhood 
of  his  estates  of  Pentremochyn,  would  feel  obliged  to  him 
at  his  earliest  convenience  to  examine  into  the  sanitary 
state  of  the  cottages  thereon,  which  are  said  to  be  much 
haunted  by  typhus  and  other  epidemics,  and  to  send  him  a 
detailed  report,  indicating  what  he  thinks  necessary  for 
making  them  thoroughly  healtliy.  Mr.  Thurnall  will  be  so 
good  as  to  make  his  own  charge." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Thurnall,  you  ought  to  turn  a  good  penny 
by  this,"  said  Heale,  half  envious  of  Tom's  connection, 
half  contemptuous  at  his  supposed  indiiference  to  gain. 

"  I  '11  charge  what  it 's  worth,"  said  Tom.  "  Meanwhile, 
I  hope  you  're  going  to  see  Miss  Beer  to-night." 

"Couldn't  you  just  go  yourself,  my  dear  sir?  It  ia 
Bo  late." 

"  No ;  I  never  go  near  young  women.  I  told  you  so  at 
first,  and  I  stick  to  my  rule.  You  'd  better  go,  sir,  on  my 
word,  or,  if  she's  dead  before  morning,  don't  say  it's  my 
fault." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  poor  old  man  so  tyrannized  over  ?  " 
said  Heale,  as  Tom  coolly  went  into  the  passage,  brought 
in  the  old  man's  great-coat  and  hat,  arrayed  him,  and 
marched  him  out,  civilly  but  firmly. 

"Now,  lieutenant,  I've  half  an  liour  to  spare;  let's 
have  a  jolly  chat  about  the  West  Indies." 

And  Tom  began  with  anecdote  and  joke,  and  the  old 
seaman  laughed  till  he  cried,  and  went  to  bed  vowing  that 
there  never  was  such  a  pleasant  fellow  on  earth,  and  he 
ought  to  be  physician  to  Queen  Victoria. 

Up  at  five  the  next  morning,  the  indefatigable  Tom  had 
all  his  own  work  done  by  ten  ;  and  was  preparing  to  start 
for  Pentremochyn,  ere  Ileale  was  out  of  bed,  when  a  cus- 
tomer came  in  who  kept  him  half  an  hour. 

He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  man,  with  a  red 
face,  protruding  bull's  eyes,  and  a  niustachio.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  complete  suit  of  pink  and  white  plaid,  cut 
jauntily  enough.  A  bright  blue  cap,  a  thick  gold  watch- 
chain,   three  or  four  large  rings,   a  dog-whistle  from    his 


TAKING   ROOT.  119 

button-hole,  a  fancy  cane  in  his  hand,  and  a  little  Oxford 
meerschaum  in  his  mouth,  completed  his  equipment.  Ho 
lounged  in,  with  an  air  of  careless  superiority,  while  Tom, 
who  was  behind  the  counter,  cutting  up  his  day's  provision 
of  honey-dew,  eyed  him  curiously. 

"  Who  are  you,  now  ?  A  gentleman  ?  Not  quite,  I 
guess.  Some  squireen  of  the  parts  adjacent,  and  look  in 
somewhat  of  a  crapulo-coraatose  state  moreover.  I  wonder 
if  you  are  the  great  Trebooze  of  Trebooze  ?  " 

"I  say,"  yawned  the  j'oung  gentleman,  "  where 's  old 
Ileale  ?  "  and  an  oath  followed  the  speech,  as  it  did  eveiy 
other  one  herein  recorded. 

"The  playing  half  of  old  Heale  is  in  bed,  and  I'm  his 
working  half     Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  Cool  fish,"  thought  the  customer.  "  I  say —  what  have 
you  got  there  ?  " 

"  Australian  honey-dew.     Did  you  ever  smoke  it  ?  " 

"  I  've  heard  of  it  ;  let's  see  :  "  and  Mr.  Trebooze  —  for 
it  was  he  —  put  his  hand  across  the  counter  unceremoni- 
ously, and  clawed  up  some. 

"  Did  n't  know  you  sold  tobacco  here.  Prime  stuff.  Too 
strong  for  me,  though,  this  morning,  somehow." 

"  Ah  I  A  httle  too  much  claret  last  night  ?  I  thought 
so.     We  '11  set  that  right  in  five  minutes." 

"Eh?  How  did  you  guess  that?"  asked  Trebooze, 
with  a  larger  oath  than  usual. 

"  0,  we  doctors  are  men  of  the  world,"  said  Tom,  in  a 
cheerful  and  insinuating  tone,  as  he  mixed  his  man  a  draught. 

"  You  doctors  ?  You  're  a  cock  of  a  different  hackle  from 
old  Heale,  then  ?  " 

"  I  trust  so,"  said  Tom. 

"By  George,  I  feel  better  already!  I  say,  you're  a 
trump;  I  suppose  you're  Heale's  new  partner,  the  man 
who  was  washed  ashore." 

Tom  nodded  assent. 

"  I  say,  how  do  you  sell  that  honey-dew  ?  " 

"  I  don't  sell  it ;  I  '11  give  you  as  much  as  you  like,  only 
you  shan't  smoke  it  till  after  dinner." 

"  Shan't  ?  "  said  Treebooze,  testy  and  proud. 

"  Not  with  my  leave,  or  you  '11  be  complaining  two  hours 
hence  that  I  'm  a  humbug,  and  have  done  you  no  good.  Get 
on  your  horse,  and  have  four  hcnirs'  gallop  on  the  downs, 
and  you'll  feel  like  a  buffalo  bull  by  two  o'clock." 

Trebooze  looked  at  him  with  a  stupid  curiosity  and  a  little 
awe.    He  saw  that  Tom's  cool  self-possession  was  not  meant 


120  TAKING    ROOT. 

for  impudence,  and  something  in  his  tone  and  manner  told 
him  that  the  boast  of  being  "  a  man  of  the  world  "  was  not 
untrue.  And  of  all  kiudt>  of  men,  a  man  of  the  world  was 
the  one  of  whom  Trebooze  stood  most  in  awe.  A  small 
squireen,  cursed  with  six  or  seven  hundreds  a  year  of  liis 
own,  never  sent  to  scliool,  college,  or  into  the  army,  he  had 
gn)Wii  up  in  a  narrow  circle  of  squireens  like  himself,  with- 
out an  object  save  that  of  gratifying  his  animal  passions, 
and  had  about  six  years  before,  being  then  just  of  age, 
settled  in  life  by  marrying  his  housemaid  —  the  only  wise 
thing,  perhaps,  he  ever  did  ;  for  she,  a  clever  and  deter- 
mined woman,  kept  him,  though  not  from  drunkenness  and 
debt,  at  least  from  delirium  tremens  and  ruin,  and  was,  in 
her  rough,  vulgar  way,  his  guardian  angel  —  such  a  one,  at 
least,  as  he  was  worthy  of.  More  than  once  has  one  seen 
the  same  seeming  folly  turn  out  in  practice  as  wise  a  step 
as  could  well  have  been  taken  :  and  the  coarse  nature  of 
the  man,  which  would  have  crushed  and  ill-used  a  delicate 
and  high-minded  wife,  subdued  to  sometjiing  like  decency 
by  a  help  literally  meet  for  it. 

There  was  a  pause.  Trebooze  fancied,  and  wisely,  that 
the  doctor  was  a  cleverer  man  than  he,  and  of  course  would 
want  to  show  it.  So,  after  tlie  fashion  of  a  country  squir- 
een, he  felt  a  longing  to  "  set  him  down."  "  He  's  been  a 
traveller,  they  say,"  thought  he,  in  that  pugnacious,  scepti- 
cal spirit  which  is  bred,  not,  as  twaddlers  fancy,  by  too 
extended  knowledge,  but  by  the  sense  of  ignorance,  and  a 
narrow  sphere  of  thought,  which  make  a  man  angry  and 
envious  of  any  one  who  has  seen  more  than  he. 

"  Buffalo  bulls  ?  "  said  he,  half  contemptuously  ;  "  what 
do  you  know  about  bull'alo  bulls?" 

"  I  was  one  once  myself,"  said  Tom,  "  where  I  lived 
before." 

Trebooze  swore.  "  Don't  you  put  your  traveller's  lies  on 
me,  sir." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  dreamt  it,"  said  Tom,  placidly;  "I 
remember  1  dreamt  at  the  same  time  that  you  were  a  grisly 
bear,  fourteen  feet  long,  and  wanted  to  eat  me  up  ;  but  you 
found  me  too  tough  about  the  hump  ribs." 

Trebooze  stared  at  his  audacity. 

"  You  'r(.'  a  rum  hand." 

To  which  Tom  made  answer  in  the  same  elegant  strain ; 
and  then  began  a  regular  word-battle  of  slang,  in  which 
Torn  showed  himself  so  really  Vv^itty  a  proficient,  that  Mr. 
Trebooze  laughed  himself  into  good-humor,  and  ended  by  — 


TAKING   ROOT.  121 

"I  say,  jou  're  a  good  fellow,  and  I  think  you  and  I  shall 
Buit.'' 

Tom  had  his  doubts,  but  did  not  express  them. 

"Come  up  this  afternoon  and  see  my  child;  Mrs.  Tre- 
Dooze  thinks  it 's  got  swelled  glands,  or  some  such  woman's 
nonsense.  Bother  them,  why  can't  they  let  the  child  alone, 
fussing  and  doctoring  ?  and  she  will  have  you.  Heard  of 
you  from  Mrs.  Vavasour,  I  believe.  Our  doctor  and  I  have 
quarrelled,  and  she  said  if  I  could  get  you,  she  'd  sooner 
have  you  than  that  old  rum-puncheon  Heale.  And  then, 
vou  'd  better  stop  and  take  pot-luck,  and  we'  11  make  a  night 
of  it." 

"  I  have  to  go  round  Lord  Minchampstead's  estates,  and 
will  take  you  on  my  way.  But  I  'm  afraid  1  shall  be  too 
dirty  to  have  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  Mrs.  Trebooze 
coming  back." 

"  Mrs.  Trebooze  I  She  must  take  what  I  like  ;  and  what 's 
good  enough  for  me  is  good  enough  for  her,  I  hope.  Come 
as  you  are  —  Liberty  Hall  at  Trebooze  ;  "  and  out  he  swag- 
gered. 

"  Does  he  bully  her  ?  "  thought  Tom,  "  or  is  he  hen- 
pecked, and  wants  to  hide  it  ?  1  '11  see  to-night,  and  play 
my  cards  accordingly." 

All  which  Miss  Heale  had  heard.  She  had  been  peeping 
and  listening  at  the  glass  door,  and  her  mother  also  ;  for  no 
Booner  had  Trebooze  entered  the  shop,  than  she  had  run  off 
to  tell  her  mother  the  surprising  fact,  —  Trebooze's  custom 
having  been,  for  some  years  past,  courted  in  vain  by  Heale. 
So  Miss  Heale  peeped  and  peeped  at  a  man  whom  she 
regarded  with  delighted  curiosity,  because  he  bore  the  repu- 
tation of  being  "  such  a  naughty  wicked  man  !  "  and  "  so 
very  handsome,  too,  and  so  distinguished  as  he  looks  !  " 
said  the  poor  little  fool,  to  whose  novel-fed  imagination  Mr. 
Trebooze  was  an  ideal  Lothario. 

But  the  surprise  of  the  two  dames  grew  rapidly  as  they 
heard  Tom's  audacity  towards  the  country  aristocrat. 

"  Impudent  wretch  !  "  moaned  Mrs.  Heale  to  herself. 
"  He  'd  drive  away  an  angel,  if  he  came  into  the  shop." 

"  0,  ma  !     Hear  how  the}'  are  going  on  now  !  " 

"  I  can't  bear  it,  my  dear.  This  man  will  be  the  ruin  of 
us.  His  manners  is  those  of  the  pot-house,  when  the  cloven 
foot  is  shown,  which  it 's  his  nature  as  a  child  of  wrath,  and 
we  can't  expect  otherwise." 

"0,  ma!  do  you  hear  that  Mr.  Trebooze  has  asked  him 
to  dinner?  " 

11 


122  TAKING    ROOT. 

"  Nonsense  !  " 

But  it  was  true. 

"  Well  !  if  there  an't  the  signs  of  the  end  of  the  world, 
which  is  ?  All  the  years  your  poor  father  has  been  nere, 
and  never  so  much  as  send  him  a  hare,  and  now  this  young, 
penniless  hiterloper ;  and  he  to  dine  at  Trebooze  oil'  purple 
and  line  linen  !  " 

"There  is  not  much  of  that  there,  ma;  I'm  sure  they 
are  poor  enough,  for  all  his  pride  ;  and  as  for  her  —  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  and  as  for  her,  though  we  haven't  mar- 
ried squires,  my  dear,  yet  we  haven't  been  squires'  house- 
maids, and  have  adorned  our  own  station,  which  was  good 
enough  for  us,  and  has  no  need  to  rise  out  of  it,  nor  ride  on 
Pharaoh's  chariot-wheels  after  filthy  lucre  —  " 

Miss  Heale  hated  poor  Mrs.  Trebooze  with  a  bitter  hatred, 
because  she  dreamed  insanely  that,  but  for  her,  she  might 
have  secured  Mr.  Trebooze  for  herself.  And  though  her 
ambition  was  now  transferred  to  the  unconscious  Tom,  that 
need  not  make  any  difference  in  the  said  amiable  feeling. 

But  that  Tom  was  a  most  wonderful  person,  she  had  no 
doubt.  He  had  conquered  her  heart — so  she  informed  her- 
self passionately  again  and  again  ;  as  was  very  necessary, 
seeing  that  the  passion,  having  no  real  life  of  its  own, 
required  a  good  deal  of  blowing  to  keep  it  alight.  Yes,  he 
had  conquered  her  heart,  and  he  was  conquering  all  hearts 
likewise.  There  must  be  some  mystery  about  him  —  there 
should  be.  And  she  settled  in  her  novel-bewildered  brain 
that  Tom  must  be  a  nobleman  in  disguise  —  probably  a  for- 
eign prince,  exiled  for  political  offences.  Bah  !  Perhaps 
too  many  lines  have  been  spent  on  the  poor  little  fool ;  but 
as  such  fools  exist,  and  people  must  be  as  they  are,  there  is 
no  harm  in  drawing  her,  and  in  asking,  too,  Who  will  help 
those  young  girls  of  the  middle  class,  who,  like  Miss  lleale, 
are  often  really  less  educated  than  the  children  of  their 
parents'  workmen ;  sedentary,  luxurious,  full  of  petty 
vanity,  gossip,  and  intrigue,  without  work,  without  pur- 
pose, except  that  of  getting  married  to  any  one  who  will 
ask  them  —  bewildering  brain  and  heart  with  novels,  which, 
after  all,  one  hardly  grudges  them  ;  for  what  other  means 
have  they  of  learning  that  there  is  any  flxirer,  nobler  life 
possible,  at  least  on  earth,  than  that  of  the  sordid  money- 
getting,  often  the  sordid  puffery  and  adulteration,  which  is 
the  atmosphere  of  their  home?  Exceptions  there  are,  in 
thousands,  doubtless  ;  and  the  families  of  the  gnvat  city 
tradesmen  stand,  of  course,  on  far  higher  ground,  and  are 


TAKING   EOOT.  123 

often  far  better  educated,  and  more  liigh-minded,  than  the 
fine  ladies,  their  parents'  customers.  But,  till  son.  e  better 
plan  of  education  than  the  boarding--school  is  devised  for 
them  ;  till  our  towns  shall  see  something  like  in  kind  to, 
though  sounder  and  soberer  in  quality  than,  the  high  schools 
of  America ;  till  in  country  villages  the  ladies  who  interest 
themselves  about  the  poor  will  recollect  that  the  farmers' 
and  tradesmen's  daughters  are  just  as  much  in  want  of  their 
influence  as  the  charity  children,  and  will  yield  a  far  richer 
return  for  their  labor,  though  the  one  need  not  interfere 
with  the  other  ;  so  long  will  lilngland  be  full  of  Miss  Heales  ; 
fated,  when  they  marry,  to  bring  up  sons  and  daughters  as 
sordid  and  unwholesome  as  their  mothers. 

Tom  worked  all  that  day  in  and  out  of  the  Pentremochyn 
cottages,  noting  down  nuisances  and  dilapidations  But 
his  head  was  full  of  other  thoughts  ;  for  he  had  received, 
the  evening  before,  news  which  was  to  him  very  important, 
for  more  reasons  than  one.  The  longer  he  stayed  at  Abe- 
ralva,  the  longer  he  felt  inclined  to  stay.  The  strange 
attraction  of  Grace  had,  as  we  have  seen,  something  to  do 
with  his  purpose  ;  but  he  saw,  too,  a  good  opening  for  one 
of  those  country  practices,  in  which  he  seemed  more  and 
more  likely  to  end.  At  his  native  Whitbury,  he  knew, 
there  was  no  room  for  a  fresh  medical  man  ;  and  gradually 
he  was  making  up  his  mind  to  settle  at  Aberalva ;  to  buy 
out  Heale,  either  with  his  own  money  (if  he  recovered  it), 
or  with  money  borrowed  from  Mark  ;  to  bring  his  father 
down  to  live  with  him,  and,  in  that  pleasant  wild  western 
place,  fold  his  wings  after  all  his  wanderings.  And  there* 
fore  certain  news,  which  he  had  obtained  the  night  before, 
was  very  valuable  to  him,  in  that  it  put  a  fresh  person  into 
his  power,  and  might,  if  cunningly  used,  give  him  a  hold 
upon  the  ruling  family  of  the  place,  and  on  Lord  Scoutbush 
liimself  He  had  found  out  that  Lucia  and  Elsley  were 
unhappy  together ;  and  found  out,  too,  a  little  more  than 
was  there  to  find.  He  could  not,  of  course,  be  a  month 
among  the  gossips  of  Aberalva  without  hearing  hints  that 
the  great  folks  at  the  court  did  not  always  keep  their  tem- 
pers ;  for,  of  family  jars,  as  of  everything  else  on  earth,  the 
great  and  just  law  stands  true  :  "  What  you  do  in  the 
closet  shall  be  proclaimed  on  the  housetop." 

But  the  gossips  of  Aberalva,  as  women  are  too  ofteu 
wont  to  do,  had  altogether  taken  the  man's  side  in  the 
quarrel.  The  reason  was,  I  suppose,  that  Imcia,  consci<ms 
of  having  fallen  somewhat  in  rank,  "  held  up  her  head  "  to 


124  TAKING    ROOT. 

Mrs.  Trebooze  and  Mrs.  Ileale  (as  tl.ey  themselves  ex 
pressed  it),  and  to  various  other  little  notabilities  of  the 
neighborhood,  rather  more  than  she  would  have  done  had 
Bhe  married  a  man  of  her  own  class.  She  was  afraid  that 
they  might  boast  of  being  intimate  with  her  ;  that  they 
might  take  to  advising  and  patronizing  her  as  an  inexpe- 
rienced young  creature  ;  afraid,  even,  that  she  might  be 
tempted,  in  some  unguarded  moment,  to  gossip  with  them, 
confide  her  uidiappiness  to  them,  in  the  blind  longing  to 
open  her  heart  to  some  human  being  ;  for  there  were  no 
resident  gentry  of  her  own  rank  in  the  neighborhood.  She 
was  too  high-minded  to  complain  much  to  Clara  ;  and  her 
sister  Valencia  was  the  ver}'  last  person  to  whom  she  would 
confess  that  her  runaway-match  had  not  been  altogether 
successful.  So  she  lived  alone  and  friendless,  shrinking 
into  herself  more  and  more,  while  the  vulgar  women  round 
mistook  her  honor  for  pride,  and  revenged  themselves  ac- 
cordingly. She  was  an  uninteresting  fine  lady,  proud  and 
cross,  and  Elslej^  was  a  martyr.  "  So  handsome  and  agree- 
able as  he  was  (and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  the  former, 
and  he  could  be  the  latter  when  he  chose),  to  bo  tied  to  that 
unsociable,  stuck-up  woman  ;  "  and  so  forth. 

All  which  Tom  had  heard,  and  formed  his  own  opinion 
thereof ;  which  was  : 

"  All  very  fine  ;  but  I  flatter  myself  I  know  a  little  what 
women  are  made  of;  and  this  I  know,  that  where  man  and 
wife  quarrel,  even  if  she  ends  the  battle,  it  is  he  who  has 
begun  it.  I  never  saw  a  case  yet  where  the  man  was  not  the 
most  in  fault ;  and  I  '11  lay  my  fife  that  John  Briggs  has  led 
her  a  pretty  life;  — what  else  could  one  expect  of  him  ?  " 

However,  he  held  his  tongue,  and  kept  his  eyes  open 
withal  whenever  he  went  up  to  Penalva  Court,  which  he 
had  to  do  very  often  ;  for,  though  he  had  cured  the  children 
of  their  ailments,  yet  Mrs.  Vavasour  was  perpetually  more 
or  less  unwell,  and  he  could  not  cure  her.  Her  low  spirits, 
headaches,  general  want  of  tone  and  vitality,  puzzled  him 
at  first ;  and  would  have  puzzled  him  longer,  had  he  not 
settled  with  himself  that  their  cause  was  to  be  sought  in  the 
mind,  ami  not  in  the  body  ;  and,  at  last,  gaining  courage 
from  certainty,  he  had  hinted  as  much  to  Miss  Clara,  the 
night  before,  when  she  came  down  (as  she  was  very  fond 
of  doing)  to  have  a  gossip  with  him  in  his  shop,  under  pre- 
tence of  fetching  medicine. 

"I  dcui't  thiid<  I  shall  send  Mrs.  Vavasour  any  more, 
Miss  Clara.     There  is  no  use  running  up  a  long  bill  while 


TAKING   EOOT.  125 

I  do  no  good  ;  and,  what  is  more,  suspect  that  I  can  do 
none,  poor  lady."  And  he  gave  the  girl  a  look  which 
Beemed  to  say,  "  You  had  better  tell  me  the  truth,  for  1 
know  everything  already." 

To  which  Clara  answered  by  trying  to  find  out  how  much 
he  did  know.  But  Tom  was  a  cunninger  diplomatist  than 
she  ;  and  in  ten  minutes,  after  having  given  solemn  prom- 
ises of  secrecy,  and  having,  by  strong  expressions  of  con- 
tempt for  Mrs.  Heale  and  the  village  gossips,  made  Clara 
understand  that  he  did  not  at  all  take  their  view  of  the 
case,  he  had  poured  out  to  him,  across  the  counter,  all  Clara's 
long-pent  indignation  and  contempt. 

"I  never  said  a  word  of  this  to  a  living  soul,  sir  ;  I  was 
too  proud,  for  my  mistress'  sake,  to  let  vulgar  people  know 
what  we  suffered.  We  don't  want  any  of  their  pity  indeed  ; 
but  you,  sir,  who  have  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman,  and 
know  what  the  world  is,  like  ourselves  —  " 

"  Take  care,"  whispered  Tom  ;  "  that  daughter  of  Heale's 
may  be  listening." 

"  I  'd  pull  her  hair  about  her  ears  if  I  caught  her  !  "  quoth 
Clara;  and  then  ran  on  to  tell  how  Elsley  "never  kept  no 
hours,  nor  no  accounts  either  ;  so  that  she  has  to  do  every- 
thing, poor  thing  ;  and  no  thanks,  either.  And  never  knows 
when  he  '11  dine,  or  when  he  '11  breakfast,  or  when  he  '11  be 
in,  wandering  in  and  out  like  a  madman  ;  and  sits  up  all 
night,  writing  his  nonsense.  And  she  '11  go  down  twice 
and  three  times  a  niglit,  in  the  cold,  poor  dear,  to  see  if  he  's 
fallen  asleep  ;  and  gets  abused  like  a  pickpocket  for  her 
pains  "  (which  was  an  exaggeration)  ;  "  and  lies  in  bed  all 
tlie  morning,  looking  at  the  flies,  and  calls  after  her  if  his 
shoes  want  tying,  or  his  finger  aches  ;  as  helpless  as  the 
babe  unborn  ;  and  will  never  do  nothing  useful  himself,  not 
even  to  hang  a  picture  or  move  a  chair,  and  grumbles  at 
her  if  he  sees  her  doing  anything,  because  she  an't  listen 
ing  to  his  prosodies,  and  snaps,  and  worrits,  and  won't 
speak  to  her  sometimes  for  a  whole  morning,  the  brute  !  " 

"  But  is  he  not  fond  of  his  children  ?  " 

"  Fond  ?  yes,  his  way,  and  small  thanks  to  him,  the  little 
angels!  To  play  with  'em  when  they're  good,  and  tell 
them  cock-and-a-bull  fairy  tales  —  wonder  why  he  likes  to 
put  such  stuff  into  their  heads  —  and  then  send  'em  out  of 
the  room  if  they  make  a  noise,  because  it  splits  his  poor 
head,  and  his  nerves  are  so  delicate.  Wish  he  had  hers,  or 
mine  either.  Doctor  Thurnall  ;  then  he  'd  know  what  nervea 
«vas  in  a  frail  woman,  which  he  uses  us  both  as  his  negro 
11* 


126  TAKING    EOOT. 

elaves,  or  would  if  I  didn't  stand  up  to  him  pretty  sharp 
now  and  tlien,  and  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  ;  whicli  I 
will  do,  like  the  faithful  servant  in  the  parable,  if  he  kills 
me  for  it,  Doctor  Thnrnall !  " 

"  Does  he  drink  ?  "  asked  Tom,  bluntly. 

"  ILa  !  "  she  answered,  in  a  tone  that  semed  to  iu.ply 
that  even  one  masculine  vice  would  have  raised  him  in  lier 
eyes.  "  lie  's  not  man  enoug-h,  I  think  ;  and  lives  on  his 
slops,  and  his  cofl'ee,  and  his  tapioca ;  and  how  's  he  ever 
to  have  any  appetite,  always  a  sitting  about,  heaped  up 
together  over  his  books,  with  his  ribs  growing  into  his 
backbone  ?  If  he  'd  only  go  and  take  his  walk,  or  get  a 
spade  and  dig  in  the  garden,  or  anything  but  them  ever- 
lasting papers,  which  I  hates  the  sight  of;  "  and  so  forth. 

From  all  wliich  Tom  gathered  a  tolerably  clear  notion  of 
the  poor  poet's  state  of  body  and  mind  ;  as  a  self-indulgent, 
unmethodical  person,  whose  ill-temper  was  owing  partly  to 
perpetual  brooding  over  his  own  thoughts,  and  partly  to 
dyspepsia,  brought  on  by  his  own  efi'eminacy,  —  in  both 
cases  not  a  thing  to  be  pitied  or  excused  by  the  hearty  and 
valiant  doctor.  And  Tom's  original  contempt  for  Vavasour 
took  a  darker  form,  perhaps  one  too  dark  to  be  altogether 
just, 

"  I  '11  tackle  him,  Miss  Clara." 

"  I  wish  you  would  ;  I  'm  sure  he  wants  some  one  to  look 
after  him  just  now.  He  's  half  wild  about  some  i-eview 
that  somebody  's  been  and  done  of  him  in  the  Times,  and 
has  been  flinging  the  paper  about  the  room,  and  calling  all 
mankind  vipers,  and  adders,  and  hooting  herds,  —  it's  as 
bad  as  s'veanng,  I  say, — and  running  to  my  mistress,  to 
make  her  read  it,  and  see  how  the  whole  world  's  against 
him,  and  then  forbidding  her  to  defile  her  eyes  with  a  word 
of  it  ;  and  so  on,  till  she  's  been  crying  all  the  morning, 
poor  dear  !  " 

"  Why  not  laughing  at  him  ?  " 

"Poor  thing  ;  tliat  's  where  it  all  is,  —  she  's  just  as  anxious 
about  liis  poetry  us  he  is,  and  would  write  it  just  as  well  as 
he,  I  Ml  warrant,  if  she  had  n't  better  things  to  do  ;  and  all 
her  fuss  is  that  people  should  'appreciate'  him.  He 'a 
always  talking  about  appreciating,  till  I  hate  the  sound  of 
the  word.  How  any  woman  can  go  on  so  after  a  man  that 
behaves  as  he  does  1  But  we  're  all  soft  fools,  I  'm  afraid, 
Doctor  Thnrnall."  And  Clara  began  a  languishing  look  or 
two  across  the  counter,  which  made  Tom  answer  to  an 
imaginary  Doctor  Heale,  whom  be  heard  calling  from  within 


TAKING    ROOT.  127 

"  Yes,  doctor  !  coming  this  moment,  doctor  !  Good-by, 
Miss  Clara.  I  must  hear  more  next  time  ;  you  may  trust 
me,  you  know  ;  secret  as  the  grave,  and  always  your  friend, 
and  your  lady's  too,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  do  myself  such 
an  honor.     Coming,  doctor  !  " 

And  Tom  bolted  through  the  glass  door,  till  Miss  Clara 
was  safe  on  her  way  up  the  street. 

"  Ver}-  well,"  said  Tom  to  himself.  "Knowledge  is 
power  ;  but  how  to  use  it  ?  To  get  into  Mi's.  Vavasour's 
confidence,  and  show  an  inclination  to  take  her  part  against 
her  husband  ?  If  she  be  a  true  woman,  she  would  order  me 
out  of  the  house  on  the  spot,  as  sui'ely  as  a  fish-wife  would 
fall  tooth  and  nail  on  me  as  a  base  intruder,  if  I  dared  to 
interfere  with  her  sacred  right  of  being  beaten  by  her  hus- 
band when  she  chooses.  No  ;  I  must  go  straight  to  John 
Briggs  himself,  and  bind  him  over  to  keep  the  peace  ;  and  I 
think  I  know  the  way  to  do  it." 

So  Tom  pondered  over  many  plans  in  his  head  that  day  ; 
and  then  went  to  Trebooze,  and  saw  the  sick  child,  and  sat 
down  to  dinner,  where  his  host  talked  loud  about  the  Tre- 
boozes  of  Trebooze,  who  fought  in  the  Spanish  Armada  — 
or  against  it ;  and  showed  an  unbounded  belief  in  the  great- 
ness and  antiquity  of  his  family,  combined  with  a  historic 
accuracy  about  equal  to  that  of  a  good  old  dame  of  those 
parts,  who  used  to  say  that  "her  family  corned  over  the 
water,  that  she  knew  ;  but  whether  it  were  with  the  Con- 
queror, or  whether  it  were  wi'  Oliver,  she  could  n't  exactly 
say  !  " 

Then  he  became  great  on  the  subject  of  old  county  fami- 
lies in  general,  and  poured  out  all  the  vials  of  his  wrath  on 
"  that  confounded  upstart  of  a  Newbroom,  Lord  Minchamp- 
stead,  supplanting  all  the  fine  old  blood  in  the  country  — 
Why,    sir,    that    Pentremochyn  and  Carcarrow  moors  too 

( good  shooting  there,  there  used  to  be),  they  ought 

to  be  mine,  sir,  if  every  man  had  his  rights  !  "  And  then 
followed  a  long  story ;  and  a  confused  one  withal,  for  by 
this  time  Mr.  Trebooze  had  drunk  a  great  deal  too  much 
wine,  and,  as  he  became  aware  of  the  fact,  became  propor- 
tionally anxious  that  Tom  should  drink  too  much  also  ;  out 
of  which  story  Tom  picked  the  plain  facts,  that  Trebooze's 
father  had  mortgaged  Pentremochyn  estate  for  more  than  its 
value,  and  that  Lord  Minchampstead  had  foreclosed  ;  while 
some  equally  respectable  uncle,  or  cousin,  just  deceased, 
had  sold  the  reversion  of  Carcarrow  to  the  same  mighty  co^ 
ten  lord  twenty  years  before.     "  And  this  is  the  way,  Bvr, 


128  TAKING    ROOT. 

the  land  gets  eaten  up  by  a  set  of  tinkers,  and  cobblois,  and 
money-lending  jobbers,  wlio  suck  the  blood  of  the  aristoc- 
racy !  "  The  oaths  we  omit,  leaving  the  reader  tu  pepper 
Mr.  Trebooze's  conversation  therewith  up  to  any  degree  of 
heat  which  may  suit  his  palate. 

Tom  sympathized  witli  him  deeply,  of  course  ;  and  did 
not  tell  him,  as  he  might  have  done,  that  he  thought  the 
sooner  such  cumberers  of  the  ground  wore  cleared  off, 
whether  by  an  encumbered  estates'  act,  such  as  we  may 
see  yet  in  England,  or  by  their  own  suicidal  folly,  the  bet- 
ter it  would  be  for  the  universe  in  general,  and  perhaps  for 
themselves  in  particular.  But  he  only  answered  with  pleas- 
ant effrontery  — 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  sure  there  are  hundreds  of  good 
sportsmen  who  can  sympathize  with  you  deeply.  The 
wonder  is,  that  you  do  not  unite  and  defend  yourselves. 
For  not  only  in  the  west  of  England,  but  in  Ireland,  and  in 
Wales,  and  in  the  north,  too,  if  one  is  to  believe  those 
novels  of  Currer  Bell's  and  her  sister,  there  is  a  large  and 
important  class  of  landed  proprietors  of  the  same  stamp  as 
yourself,  and  exposed  to  the  very  same  dangers.  I  wonder 
at  times  that  you  do  not  all  join,  and  use  your  combined 
intiuence  on  the  government." 

"  The  government  ?  All  a  set  of  Whig  traitors  !  Call 
themselves  conservative,  or  what  they  like.  Traitors,  sir  I 
from  that  fellow  Peel  upwards  —  all  combined  to  crush  the 
landed  gentry  —  ruin  the  Church  —  betray  the  country  party 

—  D'IsraeU  —  Derby —  Free-trade  —  ruined,  sir  !  —  Ma}^- 
nooth  —  Protection  —  treason  —  help  yourself,  and  pass  the 

—  you  know,  old  fellow  —  " 

And  Mr.  Trebooze's  voice  died  away,  and  he  slumbered, 
but  not  softly. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  marched  Mrs.  Trebooze,  tall, 
tawdry,  and  terrible. 

"  Mr.  Trebooze  1  it 's  past  eleven  o'clock  1 " 

"Hush,  my  dear  madam  1  He  is  sleeping  so  sweetly," 
said  Tom,  rising,  and  gulping  down  a  glass,  not  of  wine, 
but  of  strong  ammonia  and  water.  The  rogue  had  put  a 
vial  thereof  in  his  pocket  that  morning,  expecting  that,  as 
Trebooze  had  said,  he  would  be  required  to  make  a  night  of 
it. 

She  was  silent ;  for  to  rouse  her  tyrant  was  more  than 
she  dare  do.  If  awakened,  he  would  crave  for  brandy  and 
water  ;  and  if  he  got  that  sweet  poison,  he  would  probablj 


TAKING    ROOT.  129 

become  fiirioi.s.     Sht  stood  for  half  a  minute;    and  Tom, 
who  knew  her  story  well,  watched  her  curiously. 

"She  is  a  fine  woman  ;  and  with  a  far  finer  heart  in  her 
than  that  brute.  Her  eyebrow  and  eye,  now,  have  the  true 
Siddons'  stamp ;  the  great  white  forehead,  and  sharp-cut 
little  nostril,  breathing  scorn  —  and  what  a  Siddons-like 
attitude  !  —  I  should  like,  madam,  to  see  the  child  again 
before  I  go." 

"If  you  are  fit,  sir,"  answered  she. 

"Brave  woman;  comes  to  the  point  at  once.  I  am  a 
poor  doctor,  madam,  and  not  a  country  gentleman ;  and 
have  neither  money  nor  health  to  spend  in  drinking  too 
much  wine." 

"  Then  why  do  you  encourage  him  in  it,  sir  ?  I  had 
expected  a  very  diiferent  sort  of  conduct  from  you,  sir." 

Tom  did  not  tell  her,  what  she  would  not  (no  woman  will) 
understand,  that  it  is  morally  and  socially  impossible  to 
escape  from  the  table  of  a  I'ool,  till  either  he  or  you  are  con- 
quered ;  and  she  was  too  shrewd  to  be  taken  in  by  common- 
place excuses  ;  so  he  looked  her  very  full  in  the  face,  and 
replied  a  little  haughtily,  with  a  slow  and  delicate  articu 
lation,  using  his  lips  more  than  usual,  and  yet  compressing 
them  — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  if  I  have  unintentionally 
displeased  you  ;  but  if  you  ever  do  me  the  honor  of  know- 
ing more  of  me,  you  will  be  the  first  to  confess  that  youi 
words  are  unjust.  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  your  son,  or  da 
you  not? " 

Poor  Mrs.  Trebooze  looked  at  him,  with  an  eye  which 
showed  that  she  had  been  accustomed  to  study  character 
keenly,  perhaps  in  self-defence.  She  saw  that  Tom  was 
sober  ;  he  had  taken  care  to  prove  that,  by  the  way  in 
which  he  spoke  ;  and  she  saw,  too,  that  he  was  a  better  bred 
man  than  her  husband,  as  well  as  a  cleverer.  She  dropped 
her  eye  before  his  ;  heaved  something  very  like  a  sigh  _ 
and  then  said,  in  her  curt,  fierce  tone,  which  yet  implied  a 
soi't  of  sullen  resignation  — 

"Yes  ;  come  up  stairs." 

Tom  went  up,  and  looked  at  the  boy  again,  as  he  lay 
sleeping.  A  beautiful  child  of  four  years  old,  as  large  and 
fair  a  child  as  man  need  see  ;  and  yet  there  was  on  him  the 
ourse  of  his  father's  sins  ;  and  Tom  knew  it,  and  knew  that 
his  mother  knew  it  also. 

"  What  a  noble  boy  !  "  said  he,  after  looking,  not  without 
honest  admiration,  upon  the  sleeping  child,  who  had  kicked 


130  TAKING    ROOT. 

off  his  bed-clotlios,  and  lay  in  a  wild,  graceful  attitude,  as 
children  are  wont  to  lie  ;  just  like  an  old  Greek  statue  of 
Cupid.     "  It  all  depends  upon  you,  madam,  now." 

"  On  me  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  startled,  suspicious  tone. 

"  Yes.  He  is  a  magnificent  boy  ;  but  —  I  can  only  give 
palliatives.     It  depends  upon  your  care,  now," 

"  lie  will  have  that,  at  least,  I  should  hope,"  said  she, 
nettled. 

"  And  on  your  influence  ten  years  hence,"  went  on 
Tom. 

"My  influence?" 

"  Yes  ;  only  keep  him  steady,  and  he  may  grow  up  a 
magnificent  man.  If  not  —  you  will  excuse  me  —  but  you 
must  not  let  him  live  as  freely  as  his  father  ;  the  constitu- 
tions of  the  two  are  very  difterent." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  sir.  Steady  ?  His  father  makes  him 
drunk  now,  if  he  can  ;  teaches  him  to  swear,  because  it  is 
manly  —  God  help  him  and  me  !  " 

Tom's  cunning  and  yet  kind  shaft  had  sped.  He  guessed 
that  with  a  coarse  woman  like  Mrs.  Trebooze  his  best  plan 
was  to  come  as  straight  to  the  point  as  he  could  ;  and  he 
was  right.  Ere  half  an  hour  was  over,  that  woman  had 
few  secrets  on  earth  which  Tom  did  not  know. 

"  Let  me  give  you  one  hint  before  I  go,"  said  he,  at 
last.  "  Persuade  your  husband  to  go  into  a  militia 
regiment." 

"  Why  ?  He  would  see  so  much  company  ;  and  it  would 
be  so  expensive." 

"  The  expense  would  repay  itself  ten  times  over.  The 
company  which  he  would  see  would  be  sober  company,  in 
which  he  would  be  forced  to  keep  in  order.  He  would 
have  something  to  do  in  the  world  ;  and  he  'd  do  it  well. 
He  is  just  cut  out  for  a  soldier,  and  might  have  made  a 
gallant  one  by  now,  if  he  had  had  other  men's  chances.  He 
will  find  he  does  his  militia  work  well  ;  and  it  will  be  a  new 
interest,  and  a  new  pride,  and  a  new  life  to  him.  And 
meanwhile,  madam,  what  you  have  said  to  me  is  sacred. 
1  do  not  pretend  to  advise  or  interfere.  Only  tell  me  if  T 
can  be  of  use  —  how,  when,  and  where  —  and  command  me 
as  your  servant." 

And  Tom  departed,  having  struck  another  root ;  and  was 
tip  at  four  the  next  morning  (he  never  worked  at  night ; 
for,  he  said,  he  never  could  trust  after-dinner  brains),  draw 
lug  out  a  detailed  repoi't  of  the  Pentremochyn  cottages, 
wliirh  he  sent  to  Lord  Minchampstead,  with  — 


TAKING    ROOT.  131 

"  And  your  lordship  will  excuse  my  saying,  that  to  put 
the  cottages  into  the  state  in  which  your  lordship,  with 
your  known  wish  for  progress  of  all  kinds,  would  wish  to 
see  them,  is  a  responsibility  which  I  dare  not  take  on  my- 
BcH"  as  it  would  involve  a  present  outlay  of  not  less  than 
ioOl.  This  sum  would  be  certainly  repaid  to  your  lordship 
and  your  tenants,  in  the  course  of  the  next  three  years,  by 
the  saving  in  poor-rates  ;  an  opinion  for  which  I  subjoin 
my  grounds  drawn  from  the  books  of  the  medical  officer, 
Mr,  Heale  ;  but  the  responsibility,  and  possible  unpopular- 
ity, which  employing  so  great  a  sum  would  involve,  is 
more  than  I  can,  in  the  present  dependent  condition  of 
poor-law  medical  officers,  dare  to  undertake,  in  justice  to 
Mr.  Heale,  my  employer,  save  at  your  special  command. 
I  am  bound,  however,  to  inform  your  lordship,  that  this 
outlay  would,  I  think,  perfectly  defend  the  hamlets,  not 
only  from  that  visit  of  the  cholera  which  we  Lave  every 
reason  to  expect  next  summer,  but  also  from  those  zymotic' 
diseases  which  (as  your  lordship  will  see  by  my  returns) 
make  up  more  than  sixty-five  per  cent,  of  the  aggregate 
sickness  of  the  estate." 

Which  letter  the  old  cotton  lord  put  in  his  pocket,  rode 
into  Whitbury  therewith,  and  showed  it  to  Mark  Arms- 
worth. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Armsworth,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  lord  ;  I  told  you  what  sort  of  man  you  'd 
have  to  do  with  ;  one  that  does  his  work  thoroughly,  and, 
I  think,  pays  you  a  compliment  by  thinking  that  you  want 
it  done  thoroughly." 

Lord  Minchampstead  was  of  the  same  opinion  ;  but  he 
did  nut  say  so.  Few,  indeed,  have  ever  heard  Lord  Min- 
champstead give  his  opinion  ;  though  many  a  man  has  seen 
him  act  on  it. 

"  I  '11  send  down  orders  to  my  agent." 

"Don't." 

"  Why,  then,  my  good  friend  ?  " 

"  Agents  are  always  in  league  with  farmers,  or  guard- 
ian s,  or  builders,  or  drain-tile  makers,  or  attorneys,  or 
bankers,  or  somebody  ;  and  either  you  '11  be  told  that  the 
work  don't  need  doing  ;  or  have  a  job  brewed  out  of  it,  to 
get  ofl"  a  lot  of  unsalable  drain-tile,  or  cracked  soil-pans  ; 
or  to  get  farm  ditches  dug,  and  perhaps  the  highway  rates 
saved  building  culverts,  and  fifty  dodges  beside.  I  know 
their  game  ;  and  you  ought,  too,  by  now,  my  lord,  begging 
your  pardon." 


132  TAKING   ROOT. 

"  Perhaps  I  do,  Mark,"  said  his  lordship,  wifh  a 
chuckle. 

"  So,  I  say,  let  the  man  that  found  the  fox  run  the  fos:, 
and  kill  the  fox,  and  take  the  brush  home." 

"And  80  it  shall  be,"  quoth  my  Lord  Minchainp- 
Btead. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

AM   I  NOT   A   WOMAN   AND   A   SISTEE  ? " 

But  what  was  the  mysterious  bond  between  La  Cordifi- 
amma  and  the  American,  which  had  prevented  Scoutbush 
from  following'  the  example  of  his  illustrious  progenitor, 
and  taking  a  viscountess  from  off  the  stage  ? 

Certainly,  any  one  who  had  seen  her  with  him  on  the 
morning  after  Scoutbush's  visit  to  the  Mellots,  would  have 
paid  that,  if  the  cause  was  love,  the  love  was  all  on  one 
side. 

She  was  standing  by  the  fireplace  in  a  splendid  pose,  her 
arm  resting  on  the  chimney-piece,  the  book  from  which  she 
had  been  reciting  in  one  hand,  the  other  playing  in  her 
black  curls,  as  her  eyes  glanced  back  ever  and  anon  at  her 
own  profile  in  the  mirror.  Stangrave  was  half  sitting  in  a 
low  chair  by  her  side,  half  kneeling  on  the  footstool  before 
her,  looking  up  beseechingly,  as  she  looked  down  tyran- 
nically. 

"  Stupid,  this  reciting  ?  Of  course  it  is  1  I  want  reali- 
ties, not  shams  ;  life,  not  the  stage  ;  nature,  not  art." 

"  Throw  away  the  book,  then,  and  words,  and  art,  and 
live  I  " 

She  knew  well  what  he  meant ;  but  she  answered  as  if 
she  had  misunderstood  him. 

"  Thanks,  I  live  already,  and  in  good  company  enough. 
My  ghost-husbands  are  as  noble  as  they  are  obedient ;  do 
all  which  I  demand  of  them,  and  vanish  on  my  errands 
when  I  tell  them.  Can  you  guess  who  my  last  is  ?  Since 
I  tired  of  Egmont,  I  have  taken  Sir  Galahad,  the  spotless 
knight.     Did  you  ever  read  the  Mort  d'Arthur  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  times." 

"  Of  course  !  "  and  she  spoke  in  a  tone  of  contempt  so 
strong  that  it  must  have  been  affected.  "  What  have  you 
not  read  ?  And  what  have  you  copied  ?  No  wonder  that 
these  English  have  been  what  they  have  been  for  centuries, 
\v\\\]r  their  licrocs  have  been  the  Galahads,  and  their  Homer 
the  Mort  d'Arthur." 

12  C133) 


134  "  AM   I   NOT   A   WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER  ?  " 

"  Enjoy  your  Utopia ! "  said  he,  bitterly.  "  Do  you  fancy 
they  acted  up  to  their  ideals  ?  They  dreamed  of  tiie  Quest 
of  the  Sangreal  ;   but  which  of  them  ever  went  upon  it  ?  " 

_"  And  does  it  count  for  nothing  that  they  felt  it  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world  to  have  gone  on  it,  had  it  been  possible  ? 
Be  sure,  if  their  ideal  was  so  self-sacrificing,  so  lofty,  tlicir 
practice  was  ruled  by  something  higher  than  the  almighty 
dollar." 

"  And  so  are  some  other  men's,  Marie,"  answered  he, 
reproachfully. 

"Yes,  forsooth;  —  when  the  almighty  dollar  is  there 
already,  and  a  man  has  ten  times  as  much  to  spend  every 
day  as  he  can  possibly  invest  in  French  cookery,  and  wines, 
and  fine  clothes,  then  he  begins  to  lay  out  his  surplus  nobly 
on  self-education,  and  the  patronage  of  art,  and  the  theatre 
—  for  merely  aesthetic  purposes,  of  course  ;  and,  when  the 
lust  of  the  tlesh  has  been  satisfied,  thinks  himself  an  arch-, 
angel,  because  he  goes  on  to  satisfy  the  lust  of  the  eye  and 
the  pride  of  life.  Christ  was  of  old  the  model,  and  Sir 
Galahad  was  the  hero.  Now  the  one  is  exchanged  for 
Gothe,  and  the  other  for  Wilhelm  Meister." 

"  Cruel !  You  know  that  my  Gothe  fever  is  long  past. 
How  would  you  have  known  of  its  existence  if  I  had  not 
confessed  it  to  you  as  a  sin  of  old  years  ?  Have  I  not  said 
to  you,  again  and  again,  show  me  the  thing  which  you 
would  have  me  do  for  your  sake,  and  see  if  I  will  not 
do  it  ?  " 

''  For  my  sake  ?  A  noble  reason  !  Show  yourself  the 
thing  which  you  will  do  for  its  own  sake  ;  because  it  ought 
to  be  done.  Show  it  yourself,  I  say  ;  I  cannot  show  you. 
If  your  own  eyes  cannot  see  the  Sangreal,  and  the  angels 
who  are  bearing  it  before  you,  it  is  because  they  are  dull 
and  gross  ;  and  am  I  Milton's  archangel,  to  purge  them 
with  euphrasy  and  rue  ?  If  you  have  a  noble  heart,  you 
will  find  for  yourself  the  noble  Quest.  If  not,  Avho  can 
prove  to  you  that  it  is  noble  ?  "  And,  tapping  irnpatientiv 
with  her  ibot,  she  went  on  to  herself — 

"  A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  tliey  sail. 
Ah  !  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

The  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  tlic  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  start." 


"AM  I   NOT   A  WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER?"  135 

"  Why,  there  was  not  a  knight  of  the  round  table,  was 
there,  who  did  not  give  up  all  to  go  upon  that  Quest,  though 
only  one  was  found  worthy  to  fulfil  it  ?  But,  now-a-days, 
Iho  knights  sit  drinking  hock  and  champagne,  or  drive  sulky- 
wagons,  and  never  fancy  that  there  is  a  Quest  at  all." 

''  ^Vhy  talk  in  these  parables  ?  " 

"  So  the  Jews  asked  of  their  prophets.  They  are  no 
parables  to  my  ghost-husband  Sir  Galahad.  Now  go,  if 
you  please  ;  I  must  be  busy,  and  write  letters." 

He  rose  with  a  look,  half  of  disappointment,  half  amused, 
and  yet  his  face  bore  a  firmness  which  seemed  to  say,  "  You 
will  be  mine  yet."  As  he  rose,  he  cast  his  eye  upon  the 
writing-table,  and  upon  a  letter  which  lay  there  ;  and,  as  he 
did  so,  his  cheek  grew  pale,  and  his  brows  knitted. 

The  letter  was  addressed  to  "Thomas  Thurnall,  Esq., 
Aberalva." 

"  Is  this,  then,  your  Sir  Galahad  ?  "  asked  he,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  he  had  choked  down  his  rising  jeal- 
ousy, while  she  looked  first  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  then 
at  him,  and  then  at  herself  again,  with  a  determined  and 
triumphant  air. 

"  And  what  if  it  be  ?  " 

"  So  he,  then,  has  achieved  the  Quest  of  the  Sangreal  ?  " 

Stangrave  spoke  bitterly,  and  with  an  emphasis  upon  the 
"he;"  and  — 

"  What  if  he  have  ?  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  answered  she, 
while  her  face  lighted  up  with  eager  interest,  which  she  did 
not  care  to  conceal,  perhaps  chose,  iu  her  woman's  love  of 
tormenting,  to  parade. 

"  I  knew  a  man  of  that  name  once,"  he  replied,  in  a  care- 
fully careless  tone,  which  did  not  deceive  her  ;  "an  adven- 
turer—  a  doctor,  if  I  recollect  —  who  had  been  in  Texas 
and  Mexico,  and  I  know  not  where  besides.  Agreeable 
enough  he  was  ;  but,  as  for  your  Quest  of  the  Sangreal, 
whatever  it  may  be,  he  seemed  to  have  as  little  notion 
of  anything  beyond  his  own  interest  as  any  Greek  I  over 
met." 

"  Unjust !  Your  words  only  show  how  little  you  can  see  I 
That  man,  of  all  men  I  ever  met,  saw  the  Quest  at  once, 
and  followed  it,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  as  far  at  least  as 
he  was  concerned  with  it ;  —  ay,  even  when  he  pretended 
to  see  nothirg.  0,  there  is  more  generosity  in  that  man's 
affected  selfishness,  than  in  all  the  noisy  good  nature  which 
I  have  met  with  in  the  world!  Thurnall?  0,  yuu  know 
bis  nobleness  as  little  as  he  knows  it  himself!  " 


136  "am   I   NOT   A   WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER?" 

"  Then  he,  I  am  to  suppose,  is  your  phantom-husband, 
for  as  long,  at  least,  as  your  present  dream  lasts  ?  "  asked 
he,  with  white,  compressed  lips. 

"  lie  might  have  been,  I  believe,"  she  answered,  care- 
lessl3%  "if  he  had  even  taken  the  trouble  to  ask  me." 

"  Marie,  this  is  too  much  !  Do  you  not  know  to  whom 
you  speak  ?  To  one  who  deserves,  if  not  common  courtesy, 
at  least  common  mercy." 

"  Because  ho  adores  me,  and  so  forth?  So  has  many  a 
man  done  ;  or  told  me  that  he  had  dune  so.  Do  you  know 
that  1  might  be  a  viscountess  to-morrow,  so  Sabina  informs 
me,  if  I  but  chose  ?  " 

"  A  viscountess  ?  Pray  accept  your  effete  English  aris- 
tocrat, and,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  accept  my  best  wishes 
for  your  happiness." 

"  My  effete  English  aristocrat,  did  I  show  him  that  pedi- 
gree of  mine  which  I  have  ere  now  threatened  to  show  you, 
would  perhaps  be  less  horrified  at  it  than  you  are." 

"  Marie,  I  cannot  bear  this  !  Tell  me  only  what  you 
mean.  What  care  I  for  pedigree  ?  I  want  you  —  worship 
you  —  and  that  is  enough,  Marie  !  " 

"  You  admire  me  because  I  am  beautiful.  What  thanks 
do  I  owe  you  for  finding  out  so  patent  a  fact  ?  What  do 
you  do  more  to  me  than  I  do  to  myself?  "  and  she  glanced 
back  once  more  at  the  mirror. 

"  Marie,  you  know  that  your  words  are  false  ;  I  do 
more  — " 

"  You  admire  me,"  interrupted  she,  "  because  I  am 
clever.  What  thanks  to  you  for  that,  again  ?  What  do 
^ou  do  more  to  me  than  you  do  to  yourself?  " 

"And  this,  after  all—" 

"  After  what  ?  x\fter  you  found  me,  or  rather  I  found 
you  —  you  the  critic,  the  arbiter  of  the  green-room,  the 
highly-organized  do-nothing,  teaching  others  how  to  do 
nothing  most  gracefully  ;  the  would-be  Gothe,  who  must, 
for  the  sake  of  his  own  self-development,  try  experiments 
on  every  weak  woman  whom  lie  met.  And  I,  the  new 
phenomenon,  wliom  you  must  appreci;ite  to  show  your  own 
taste,  patronize  to  show  your  own  liberality,  develop  to 
show  your  own  insiglit  into  character.  You  found  yourself 
mistaken  !  You  had  attempted  to  play  with  the  tigress  — 
and  beliold  she  had  talons  :  to  angle  for  the  silly  fish  —  and 
behold  the  fish  was  the  better  angler,  and  caught  you." 

"  Marie,  have  mercy  !     Is  your  heart  iron  ?  " 


''am   I   NOT   A   WOMAN   AND   A   SISTER?"  137 

'•  No  ;  but  fire,  as  my  name  shows  ;  "  and  she  stood  look- 
hig  down  upon  him  with  a  glare  of  dreadful  beauty, 

"Fire,  indeed  !" 

"  Yes,  fire,  that  I  may  scorch  you,  kindle  you,  madden 
you,  to  do  my  work,  and  wear  the  heart  of  fire  which  I 
wear  day  and  night !  " 

Stangrave  looked  at  her  startled.  Was  she  mad  ?  Her 
face  did  not  say  so  ;  her  brow  was  white,  her  features  calm, 
her  eye  fierce  and  contemptuous,  but  clear,  steady,  full  of 
meaning. 

"  So  you  know  Mr.  Thurnall  ?  "  said  she,  after  a  while. 

"  Yes  ;  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  the  only  friend  I  have  on  earth." 

"  The  only  friend,  Marie  ?  " 

"The  only  one,"  answered  she,  calmly,  "who,  seeing 
the  right,  has  gone  and  done  it  forthwith.  When  did  you 
see  him  last  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Thurnall  for  some 
years,"  said  Stangrave,  haughtily. 

"  In  plain  words,  you  have  quarrelled  with  him  ?  " 

Stangrave  bit  his  lip. 

"  He  and  I  had  a  difference.  He  insulted  my  nation,  and 
we  parted." 

She  laughed  a  long,  loud,  bitter  laugh,  which  rang 
through  Stangrave's  ears. 

"  Insulted  your  nation  ?     And  on  what  grounds,  pray  ?  " 

"  About  that  accursed  slavery  question  !  " 

La  Cordifiamma  looked  at  him  with  firm-closed  lips  a 
while. 

"  So,  then  !  I  was  not  aware  of  this  !  Even  so  long  ago 
you  saw  the  Sangreal,  and  did  not  know  it  when  you  saw 
it!  No  wonder  that  since  then  you  have  been  staring  at  it 
for  months,  in  your  very  hands  ;  played  with  it,  admired 
it,  made  verses  about  it,  to  show  ofl'  your  own  taste  ;  and 
yet  were  blind  to  it  the  whole  time  !     Farewell,  then  !" 

"  Marie,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  and  Stangrave  caught 
both  her  hands. 

"Hush,  if  you  please.  I  know  ycu  are  eloquent  enough, 
•^'hen  you  chuose,  though  you  have  been  somewhat  dumb 
dud  monosyllabic  to-night  in  the  presence  of  the  actress 
whom  you  undertook  to  educate.  But  1  know  that  you 
can  be  oloquent,  so  spare  me  any  brilliant  appeals,  wliich 
can  only  go  to  prove  that  alread}'  settled  fact.  Between 
you  and  me  lie  two  great  gulfs.  The  one  I  have  told  yea 
12* 


138  "am   I   NOT   A    WOMAN    AND    A  SISTER?" 

of;  and  from  it  I  slirink.  The  other  I  have  not  told  you  of; 
from  it  you  would  shrink." 

"  The  first  is  your  Quest  of  the  Sangreal." 

She  smiled  assent,  bitterly  enough. 

"And  the  second  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  ;  and  Stangrave,  in  spite  of  his  almost  doting  affec- 
tion, flushed  with  anger,  almost  contempt,  at  her  vanity. 

And  yet,  was  it  vanity  which  was  expressed  in  that  face  ? 
No  ;  but  dread,  horror,  almost  disgust,  as  she  gazed  with 
sidelong,  startled  eyes,  struggling,  and  yet  struggling  in 
vain,  to  turn  her  face  from  some  horrible  sight,  as  if  her 
own  image  had  been  the  Gorgon's  head. 

"  What  is  it  ?     Marie,  speak  1  " 

But  she  answered  nothing.  For  that  last  question  she 
had  no  heart  to  answer  ;  no  heart  to  tell  him  that  in  her 
veins  were  some  drops,  at  least,  of  the  blood  of  slaves. 
Instinctively  she  had  looked  round  at  the  mirror — for 
might  he  not,  if  he  had  eyes,  discover  that  secret  for  him- 
self? Were  there  not  in  her  features  traces  of  that  taint  ? 
And  as  she  looked,  —  was  it  the  mere  play  of  her  excited 
fancy,  —  or  did  her  eyelid  slope  more  and  more,  her  nostrils 
shorten  and  curl,  her  lips  enlarge,  her  mouth  itself  protrude  ? 

It  was  more  than  the  play  of  fancy  ;  for  Stangrave  saw  it 
as  well  as  she.  Her  actress's  imagination,  fixed  on  the 
African  type  with  an  intensity  proportioned  to  her  dread 
of  seeing  it  in  herself,  had  moulded  her  features,  for  the 
moment,  into  the  very  shape  which  it  dreaded.  And  Stan- 
grave saw  it,  and  shuddered  as  he  saw. 

Another  half  minute,  and  that  face  also  had  melted  out 
of  the  mirror,  at  least  for  Marie's  eyes  ;  and  in  its  place  an 
ancient  negress,  white-haired,  withered  as  the  wrinkled  ape, 
but  with  eyes  closed  —  in  death.  Marie  knew  that  face 
well ;  a  face  which  haunted  many  a  dream  of  hers  ;  once 
seen,  but  never  forgotten  since  ;  for  to  that  old  dame's 
coffin  had  her  mother,  the  gay  quadroon  woman,  flaunting 
in  lincry  which  was  the  price  of  shame,  led  Marie  when  she 
was  but  a  three  years'  child  ;  and  Marie  had  seen  her  bend 
over  the  corpse,  and  call  it  her  dear  old  granny,  and  weep 
hitter  tears. 

Suddenly  she  shook  off  the  spell,  and  looked  round  and 
down,  terrified,  self-conscious.  Her  eye  caught  Stan- 
grave's  ;  she  saw,  or  thought  she  saw,  by  the  expression 
of  his  face,  that  he  knew  all,  and  burst  away  with  a  shriek. 

He  sprang  up  and  caught  her  in  liis  arms.     "  Marie  ! 


"AM  I   NOT    A  WOMAN    AND    A  SISTER?"  139 

Beloved  Marie  !  "  She  looked  up  at  him,  strug-gling'  ;  the 
dark  expression  had  vanished,  and  Stangrave's  love-blinded 
ej^es  could  see  nothing  in  that  face  but  the  refined  and  yet 
rich  beauty  of  the  Italian. 

"Marie,  this  is  mere  madness;  you  excite  yourself  till 
you  know  not  what  you  say,  or  what  you  are — " 

•'I  know  what  I  am,"  murmured  she  ;  but  he  hurried  on 
unheeding. 

"  You  love  me,  you  know  you  love  me  ;  and  you  madden 
yourself  by  refusing  to  confess  it  1  "  lie  felt  her  heart 
throb  as  he  spoke,  and  knew  that  he  spoke  truth.  "  ^Vhat 
gulfs  are  these  you  dream  of  ?  No  ;  I  will  not  ask.  There 
is  no  gulf  between  me  and  one  whom  I  adore,  who  has 
thrown  a  spell  over  me  which  I  cannot  resist,  which  I  glory 
in  not  resisting ;  for  you  have  been  my  guide,  my  morning 
star,  which  has  awakened  me  to  new  life.  If  I  have  a  noble 
purpose  upon  earth,  if  I  have  roused  myself  from  that  con- 
ceited dream  of  self-culture  which  now  looks  to  me  so  cold, 
and  barren,  and  tawdrJ^  into  the  hope  of  becoming  useful, 
beneficent  —  to  whom  do  I  owe  it  but  to  you,  Marie  ?  No  ; 
there  is  no  gulf,  Marie  !  You  are  my  wife,  and  you  alone  !  " 
And  he  held  her  so  firmly,  and  gazed  down  upon  her  with 
such  strong  manhood,  that  her  woman's  heart  quailed  ;  and 
he  might,  perhaps,  have  conquered  then  and  there,  had  not 
Sabina,  summoned  by  her  shriek,  entered  hastily. 

"  Good  heavens  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Wait  but  one  minute,  Mrs.  Mellot,"  said  he;  "the 
next,  I  shall  introduce  you  to  my  bride." 

"  Never!  never!  never  !  "  cried  she,  and,  breaking  from 
him,  flew  into  Sabina's  arms.  "  Leave  me,  leave  me  to  bear 
my  curse  alone  !  " 

And  she  broke  out  into  such  wild  weeping,  and  refused 
so  wildly  to  hear  another  word  from  Stangrave,  that  he 
went  away  in  despair,  the  prize  snatched  from  his  grasp  in 
the  very  moment  of  seeming  victory. 

He  went  in  search  of  Claude,  who  had  agreed  to  mee: 
him  at  the  exhibition  in  Trafalgar  Square.  Thither  Stan- 
grave  rolled  away  in  his  cab,  his  heart  full  of  many 
thoughts.  Marie's  words  about  him,  though  harsh  and 
exaggerated,  were  on  the  whole  true.  She  had  fascinated 
him  utterly.  To  marry  her  was  now  the  one  object  of  his 
life  ;  she  had  awakened  in  him,  as  he  had  confessed,  noble 
desires  to  be  useful ;  but  the  discovery  that  he  was  to  be 
useful  to  the  negro,  that  abolition  was  the  Sangreal  in  the 


140  "am    1    NOT    A    WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER?" 

quest  of  whicli  he  was  to  go  forth,  was  as  disagreeable  a 
discovery  as  he  could  well  have  made. 

From  public  life  iu  any  shape,  with  all  its  vulgar  noise, 
its  petty  chicanery,  its  pandering  to  the  mob  whom  he 
despised,  he  had  always  shrunk,  as  so  many  Americans  ( f 
his  stamp  have  done.  lie  had  no  wish  to  struggle,  unre- 
warded and  disappointed,  in  the  ranks  of  the  minority  ; 
wliile  to  gain  place  and  power  on  the  side  of  the  majority, 
was  to  lend  himself  to  tliat  fatal  policy  which,  ever  since 
the  Missouri  Compromise  of  1820,  has  been  gradually  mak- 
ing the  northern  states  more  and  more  the  tools  of  the 
southern  ones.  lie  had  no  wish  to  be  threatened  in  Con- 
gress with  "  being  nailed  to  tli(>  countei'  like  base  coin,"  nor 
to  be  told  that  he  and  the  millions  of  the  north  wei'e  the 
"white  slaves"  of  a  southern  oligarchy.  He  had  enough 
comprehension  of,  enough  admiration  for,  the  noble  prin- 
ciph.'s  of  the  American  Constitution  to  see  that  the  demo- 
cratic mobs  of  Irish  and  Germans,  who  were  stupidly  play- 
ing into  the  hands  of  the  Southerners,  were  not  exactly 
carrying  them  out ;  but  he  had  no  mind  to  face  either  Irish 
or  Southerners.  The  former  were  too  vulgar  for  his  deli- 
cacy ;  the  latter  too  aristocratic  fen-  his  pride.  Sprung,  as 
he  held  (and  rightly),  from  as  fine  old  English  blood  as  any 
Virginian  (though  it  did  happen  to  be  Puritan,  and  not 
Cavalier),  he  had  no  lust  to  come  into  contact  with  men  Avho 
looked  upon  him  as  the  English  nobleman  of  yesterday 
looks  upon  the  English  merchant  of  to-day.  So  he  com- 
pounded with  his  conscience  by  ignoring  the  whole  matter, 
and  by  looking  on  the  state  of  ))iiblic  alfiiirs  on  his  side 
of  the  Atlantic  with  a  cynicism  wliicli  very  soon  (as  is  usual 
with  rich  men)  passed  into  Epicureanism.  Poetry  and 
music,  pictures  and  statues,  amusement  and  travel,  became 
his  idols,  and  cultivation  his  substitute  for  the  plain  duty 
of  patriotism  ;  and,  wandering  luxuriously  over  the  world, 
he  learnt  to  sentimentalize  over  cathedrals  and  monas- 
teries, pictures  and  statues,  saints  and  kaisers,  with  a  lazy 
regret  that  "  such  forms  of  beaut}^  and  nobleness  "  were 
no  longer  possible  in  a  world  of  scrip  and  railroads  ;  but 
without  any  notion  that  it  was  his  duty  to  reproduce,  in 
his  own  life,  or  that  of  his  country,  as  much  as  he  could 
of  the  said  beauty  and  nobleness.  And  now  he  was  sorely 
tried.  It  was  interesting  enough  to  "develop"  the  pecu« 
liar  turn  of  ^larie's  genius  I)}'  writing  for  her  plays  about 
liberty,  just  as  he  would  have  writtei  plays  about  jealousy 


•*AM   I   NOT    A    WOMAN   AND    A    SISTER?"  141 

or  anything  else  for  representing  which  she  had  "capa- 
bilities." But  to  be  called  on  to  act  in  that  Slavery  ques- 
tion,—  the  one  on  which  he  knew  (as  all  sensible  Amer- 
icans do)  that  the  life  and  death  of  his  country  depended, 
and  which  for  that  very  reason  he  had  carefully  ignored 
till  a  more  convenient  season,  finding  in  its  very  difficulty 
and  danger  an  excuse  for  leaving  it  to  solve  itself;  —  to 
have  this  thrust  on  him,  and  by  her,  as  the  price  of  the 
thing  which  he  must  have,  or  die  !  If  she  had  asked  for  his 
right  hand,  he  would  have  given  it  sooner ;  and  he  entered 
the  Royal  Academy  that  day  in  much  the  same  humor  as 
that  of  a  fine  lady  who  should  find  herself  suddenly  dragged 
from  the  ball-room  into  the  dust-hole,  in  her  tenderest  array 
of  gauze  and  jewels,  and  there  peremptorily  compelled  to 
sift  the  cinders,  under  the  superintendence  of  the  sweep 
and  the  pot-boy. 

Glad  to  escape  from  questions  which  he  had  rather  not 
answer  too  so(jn,  he  went  in  search  of  Claude,  and  found 
him  before  one  of  those  pre-Raphaelite  pictures,  which 
Claude  does  not  appreciate  as  he  ought. 

"  Desinit  in  Culicem  mulier  formosa  superne,''  said  Stan- 
grave,  as  he  looked  over  Claude's  shoulder  ;  "  but  I  suppose 
he  followed  nature,  and  copied  his  model." 

"That  he  didn't,"  said  Claude;  "for  I  know  who  his 
model  was  ;  but,  if  he  did,  he  had  no  business  to  do  so.  I 
object  on  principle  to  these  men's  notion  of  what  copying 
nature  means.  I  don't  deny  him  talent.  I  am  ready  to 
confess  that  there  is  more  imagination  and  more  honest 
work  in  that  picture  than  in  any  one  in  the  room.  The  hys- 
terical, all  but  grinning  joy,  upon  the  mother's  face,  is  a 
miracle  of  truth.  I  have  seen  the  expression  more  than 
once  ;  doctors  see  it  often,  in  the  sudden  revulsion  from 
terror  and  agony  to  certainty  and  peace  ;  I  only  marvel 
where  he  ever  met  it.  But  the  general  effect  is  unpleasing, 
marred  by  patclies  of  sheer  ugliness,  like  that  child's  foot. 
There  is  the  same  mistake  in  all  his  pictures.  Whatever 
they  are,  they  are  not  beautiful  ;  and  no  magnificence  of 
surface  coloring  will  makeup,  in  my  eyes,  for  wilful  ugliness 
of  form.  I  say  that  nature  is  beautiful ;  and  therefore 
nature  cannot  have  been  truly  copied,  or  the  general  effect 
would  have  been  beautiful  also.  I  never  found  out  the  fal- 
lacy till  the  other  day,  when  looking  at  a  portrait  by  one  of 
them.  The  woman  for  whom  it  was  meant  was  standing  by 
my  side,  young  and  lovely  ;  the  portrait  hung  there  neither 


14'2  "am   I   NOT    A   WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER?" 

young-  nor  lovely,  but  a  wrinkled  caricature  twenty  years 
older  tliau  the  model." 

"  I  surely  know  the  portrait  you  mean  ;  —  Lady  D 's." 

"  Yes.  He  had  simply,  under  pretence  of  following 
nature,  caricatured  her  into  a  woman  twenty  years  older 
than  she  is." 

"But  did  you  ever  see  a  modern  portrait  which  more 
perfectly  expressed  character  ;  which  more  completely  ful- 
filled the  requirements  which  you  laid  down  a  few  evenings 
since  ?  " 

"  Never;  and  that  makes  me  all  the  more  cross  with  the 
wilful  mistake  of  it.     He  had  painted  every  wrinkle." 

"  Why  not,  if  they  were  there  ?  " 
_  "  Because  he  had  painted  a  face  not  one  twentieth  of  the 
size  of  life.      What  right  had  he  to  cram  into  that  small 
space  all  the  marks  which  nature  had  spread  over  a  far 
larger  one  ?  " 

"  Why  not,  again,  if  he  diminished  the  marks  in  propor- 
tion ?  " 

"  Just  what  neither  he  nor  any  man  could  do,  without 
making  them  so  small  as  to  be  invisible,  save  under  a  micro- 
scope ;  and  the  result  was,  that  he  had  caricatured  every 
wrinkle,  as  his  friend  has  in  those  horrible  knuckles  of  Shem's 
wife.  Besides,  I  deny  utterly  3'our  assertion  that  one  is 
bound  to  paint  what  is  there.  On  that  very  fallacy  are  they 
all  making  shipwreck." 

"  Not  paint  what  is  there  ?  And  you  are  the  man  who 
talks  of  art  being  highest  when  it  copies  nature." 

"  Exacd}*.  And  therefore  you  must  paint,  not  what  is 
there,  but  what  you  see  there.  They  forget  that  human 
beings  are  men  with  two  eyes,  and  not  daguerreotype  lenses 
with  one  eye,  and  so  are  contriving  and  striving  to  intro- 
duce into  their  pictures  the  very  defect  of  the  daguerreo- 
type which  the  stereoscope  is  required  to  correct." 

"  I  comprehend.  They  forget  that  the  double  vision  of 
our  two  eyes  gives  a  softness,  and  indistinctness,  and 
roundness,  to  every  outline." 

"  Exactly  so  ;  and  therefore,  while  for  distant  landscapes, 
motionless,  and  already  softened  by  atmosphere,  the 
daguerreotj'pe  is  invaluable  (I  shall  do  nothing  else  this 
summer  but  work  at  it),  yet  for  taking  portraits,  in  any  true 
sense,  U  will  be  always  useless,  not  only  for  the  reason  1 
just  gave,  but  for  another  one  which  the  pre-Raphaelites 
have  forgotten." 

"  Because  all  the  features  cannot  be  in  focus  at  once  °  " 


•'AM    I   NOT   A   WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER?"  143 

"  0  no,  I  am  not  speaking  of  that.  Art,  for  aught  I  know, 
may  overcome  that  ;  for  it  is  a  mere  deiiect  in  the  instru- 
ment. What  1  mean  is  this  :  it  tries  to  represent  as  still 
what  never  yet  was  still  for  the  thousandth  part  of  a  sec 
ond  ;  that  is,  a  human  face  ;  and -as  seen  by  a  spectator  who 
is  perfect!}'  still,  which  no  man  ever  yet  was.  My  dear 
fellow,  don't  you  see  that  what  some  painters  call  idealiz- 
ing a  portrait  is,  if  it  be  wisely  done,  really  painting  for 
you  the  face  which  j'ou  see,  and  know,  and  love  ;  her  ever- 
shifting  features,  with  expression  varying  more  rapidly  than 
the  gleam  of  the  diamond  on  her  finger  ;  features  which 
you,  in  your  turn,  are  looking  at  with  ever-shifting  eyes  ; 
while,  perhaps,  if  it  is  a  face  which  you  love  and  have  lin- 
gered over,  a  dozen  other  expressions  equally  belonging  to 
it  are  hanging  in  your  memory,  and  blending  themselves 
with  the  actual  picture  on  your  retina  ;  till  every  little  angle 
is  somewhat  rounded,  every  little  wrinkle  somewhat  soft- 
ened, every  little  shade  somewhat  blended  with  the  sur- 
rounding  light,  so  that  the  sum  total  of  what  you  see,  and 
are  intended  by  Heaven  to  see,  is  something  far  softer, 
lovelier  —  younger,  perhaps,  thank  Heaven  !  —  than  it  would 
look  if  your  head  was  screwed  down  in  a  vice,  to  look  with 
one  eye  at  her  head  screwed  down  in  a  vice  also  ;  though 
even  that,  thanks  to  the  muscles  of  the  eye,  would  not  pro- 
duce the  required  ugliness  ;  and  the  only  possible  method 
of  fulfilling  the  pre-Raphaelite  ideal  would  be,  to  set  a  petri- 
fied Cyclops  to  paint  his  petrified  brother." 

"  You  are  spiteful." 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  standing  up  for  art,  and  for  nature, 
too.  For  instance  :  Sabina  has  wrinkles.  She  says,  too, 
that  she  has  gray  hairs  coming.  The  former  I  won't  see, 
and  therefore  don't.  The  latter  I  can't  see,  because  I  am 
not  looking  for  them." 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  Stangrave,  smiling.  "  I  assure  you 
the  announcement  is  new  to  me." 

"  Of  course.  Who  can  see  wrinkles  in  the  light  of  these 
eyes,  that  smile,  that  complexion  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"' said  Stangrave,  "  if  I  asked  for  her  portrait, 
as  I  shall  do  some  day,  and  the  artist  sat  down  and  painted 
the  said  '  wastes  of  time,'  on  pretence  of  their  being  there, 
I  should  consider  it  an  impertinence  on  his  part.  What 
business  has  he  to  spy  out  what  nature  is  taking  such 
charming  trouble  to  conceal?" 

"Again,"   said  Claude,  "such  a  face   as  Cordifiamma's 
When  it  is  at  rest,  in  deep  thought,  there  are  lines  in  i^ 


144  "am   I   NOT   A   WOMAN   AND    A   SISTER?" 

which    utterl}'  puzzle  one,  —  touches  which   are   Eastern, 
Kabyle,  almost  Quadroon." 

Stangrave  started.     Claude  went  on,  unconscious  : 

"  But  who  sees  them  in  the  lig-ht  of  that  beauty '(  They 
are  detects,  no  doubt,  but  defects  which  no  one  would 
observe  without  deep  study  of  the  face.  They  express  her 
character  no  more  than  a  scar  would  ;  and  therefore  when 
I  paint  her,  as  I  must  and  will,  I  shall  utterly  ignore  thorn. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  I  met  the  same  lines  in  a  face  which 
I  knew  to  have  Quadroon  blood  in  it,  I  should  religiously 
copy  them  ;  because  then  they  would  be  integral  elements 
of  the  face.     You  understand  'i  " 

"Understand?  —  yes,"  answered  Stangrave,  in  a  tone 
which  made  Claude  look  up. 

That  strange  scene  of  half  an  hour  before  flashed  across 
him.  What  if  it  were  no  fancy  ?  What  if  Marie  had  Afri- 
can blood  in  her  veins?  And  Stangrave  shuddered,  and 
felt  for  the  moment  that  thousands  of  pounds  would  be  a 
cheap  price  to  pay  for  the  discovery  that  his  fancy  was  a 
false  one. 

"Yes  —  0  —  I  beg  your  pardon  !"  said  he,  recovering 
himself.  "  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  But,  as  you 
say,  what  if  she  had  Quadroon  blood  ?  " 

"  I  ?  I  never  said  so,  or  dreamt  of  it." 

"  0  !  I  mistook.  Do  you  know,  though,  where  she  came 
from  ?  " 

"  I  ?  You  forget,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  yourself  intro- 
duced her  to  us." 

"Of  course;  but  I.thought  Mrs.  Mellot  might — women 
always  make  confidences." 

"  AH  we  know  is,  what  I  suppose  you  knew  long  ago, 
that  her  most  intimate  friend,  next  to  you,  seems  to  be  au 
old  friend  of  ours,  named  Thurnall." 

"  An  old  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"0,  yes  ;  we  have  known  him  these  fifteen  years.  Met 
him  first  at  Paris  ;  and  after  that  went  round  the  world  with 
him,  and  saw  infinite  adventures.  Sabina  and  1  spent  three 
months  with  him  once,  among  the  savages  in  a  South-sea 
island,  and  a  very  pretty  romance  our  stay  and  escape  would 
make.  We  were  all  three,  I  believe,  to  have  been  cooked 
and  eaten,  if  Tom  had  not  got  us  off  by  that  wonderful 
address  which,  if  you  know  him,  you  must  know  Avell 
enough." 

"Yes,"  answered  Stangrave,  coldly,  as  in  a  dream,  "I 
have  known  Mr.  Thurnall  ni  past  years,  but  not  in  connec- 


"AM   I   NOT    A   WOMAN   AND    A    SISTER?"  145 

tion  with  La  Signora  Cordifiamma.  I  was  not  aware  till 
this  moment  —  this  morning,  1  mean  —  that  they  knew  each 
other." 

"  You  astound  me  ;  wh_y,  she  talks  of  him  to  us  all  day 
long,  as  of  one  to  whom  she  has  the  deepest  obligations  ; 
Bhe  was  ready  to  rush  into  our  arms  when  she  first  found 
that  we  knew  him.  He  is  a  greater  hero  in  her  eyes.  I 
sometimes  fancy,  than  even  you  are.  She  does  nothing  (or 
fancies  that  she  does  nothing,  for  you  know  her  pretty  wil- 
fulness) without  writing  for  his  advice." 

"la  hero  in  her  eyes  ?  I  was  really  not  aware  of  that 
fact,"  said  Stangrave,  more  coldly  than  ever ;  for  bitter 
jealousy  had  taken  possession  of  his  heart.  "  Do  you  know, 
then,  what  this  same  obligation  may  be  ?  " 

"  I  never  asked.  I  hate  gossiping,  and  I  make  a  rule  to 
inquire  into  no  secrets  but  such  as  are  voluntarily  confided 
to  me  ;  and  I  know  that  she  has  never  told  Sabina." 

"I  suppose  she  is  married  to  him.  That  is  the  simplest 
explanation  of  the  mystery." 

"  Impossible  I  What  can  you  mean  ?  If  she  ever  mar 
ries  living  man,  she  will  marry  you." 

"Then  she  will  never  marry  living  man,"  said  Stangrave, 
to  himself  "  Good-by,  my  dear  fellow  ;  I  have  an  engage- 
ment at  the  Traveller's."  And  away  went  Stangrave,  leav- 
ing Claude  sorely  puzzled,  but  little  dreaming  of  the 
powder-magazine  into  which  he  had  put  a  match. 

But  he  was  puzzled  still  more  that  night,  when  by  the 
latest  post  a  note  came  — 

"From  Stangrave  !  "  said  Claude.  "  Why,  in  the  name 
of  all  wonders  !  "  and  he  read  : 

"  Good-by.  I  am  just  starting  for  the  Continent,  on 
sudden  and  urgent  business.  What  my  destination  is  T 
can  hardly  tell  you  yet.  You  will  hear  from  me  in  the 
course  of  the  summer." 

Claude's  countenance  fell,  and  the  note  fell  likewise. 
Sabina  snatched  it  up,  read  it,  and  gave  La  Cordifiamma  a 
look  which  made  her  spring  from  the  sofa,  and  snatch  it  in 
turn. 

She  read  it  through  with  trembling  hands  and  blanching 
cheeks,  and  then  dropped  fainting  upon  the  floor. 

They  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  while  they  Avere  recovering 
her,  Claude  told  Sabina  the  only  clue  which  he  had  to  the 
American's  conduct,  namely,  that  afternoon's  conversation 

Sabina  shook  her  head  over  it ;  for  to  her,  also,  the  Amer 
lean's  explanation  had  suggested  itself.    Was  Marie  Thurn- 
13 


146  "am    I   NOT    A   WOMAN   AND   A   SISTER?" 

all's  wife?  Or  did  she  —  it  was  possible,  however  painful 
—  stand  to  him  in  some  less  honorable  relation,  which  she 
would  fain  forg-et  now,  in  a  new  passion  lor  Stangravc  '( 
For  that  Marie,  loved  Stanj^rave,  Sabina  knew  well  ent)ug-li. 

The  doubt  was  so  ugly  that  it  must  be  solved  ;  and  when 
Bha  had  got  the  poor  tiling  safe  into  her  bed-room,  she 
alluded  to  it  as  gently  as  she  could. 

Marie  sprang  up  in  indignant  innocence. 

"  lie  ?  Whatever  he  may  be  to  others,  I  know  not ;  but 
t(>  me  he  has  been  purity  and  nobleness  itself —  a  brother, 
a  father !  Yes  ;  if  1  had  no  other  reason  for  trusting  him, 
1  should  love  him  for  that  alone,  that  however  tempted  he 
may  have  been — and  Heaven  knows  he  was  tempted  —  he 
could  respect  the  honor  of  his  friend,  though  that  friend  lay 
Bleeping  in  a  soldier's  grave  ten  thousand  miles  away." 

And  Marie  threw  herself  upon  Sabina's  neck,  and  under 
the  pressure  of  her  misery  sobbed  out  to  her  the  story  of 
her  life.  What  it  was  need  not  be  told.  A  little  common 
sense,  and  a  little  knowledge  of  human  nature,  will  enable 
the  reader  to  fill  up  for  himself  the  story  of  a  beautiful  slave. 

Sabina  soothed  her  and  cheered  her  ;  and  soothed  and 
cheered  her  most  of  all  by  telling  her  in  return  the  story  of 
her  own  life  —  not  so  dark  a  one,  but  almost  as  sad  and 
strange.  And  poor  Marie  took  heart,  when  she  found  in 
her  great  need  a  sister  in  the  communion  of  sorrows. 

"  And  you  have  been  through  all  this,  so  beautiful  and 
bright  as  you  are  !  You  whom  1  should  have  fancied  alwaj^s 
living  the  life  of  the  humming-bird  ;  and  yet  not  a  scar  or  a 
wrinkle  has  it  left  behind." 

"  They  were  there  once,  Marie  ;  but  God  and  Claude 
smoothed  them  away." 

"  I  have  no  Claude,  —  and  no  God,  I  think  at  times." 

"  No  God,  Marie  !     Then  how  did  you  come  hither?  " 

Marie  was  silent,  reproved  ;  and  then  said,  passionately  — 

"  Why  does  he  not  right  my  people  ?  " 

That  question  was  one  to  which  Sabina's  little  scheme  of 
the  universe  had  no  answer  ;  why  should  it,  while  many  n 
sch.eme  which  pretends  to  be  far  vaster  and  more  infallible 
has  none  as  yet  ? 

So  she  was  silent,  and  sat  with  Marie's  head  upon  her 
bosom,  caressing  the  black  curls,  till  she  had  soothed  her 
into  sobbing  exliaustion. 

"There,  lie  there  and  rest;  you  shall  be  my  child,  my 
poor  Marie.     I  have  a  fresh  child  every  week  ;  but  1  shall 


"am   I   NOT   A    WOMAN   AND    A    SISTER?"  147 

fiud  plenty  of  room  in  my  heart  for  you,  my  poor  liunted 
deer." 

"  You  will  keep  my  secret  ?  " 

"  Why  keep  it  ?  No  one  need  be  ashamed  of  it  here  in 
free  England." 

"  But  he  —  he  — you  do  not  know,  Sabina  !  Those  North- 
ernex's,  with  all  their  boasts  of  freedom,  shrink  from  rs  just 
as  much  as  our  own  masters." 

"  0,  Marie,  do  not  be  so  unjust  to  him  !  He  is  too 
noble,  and  you  must  know  it  yourself." 

"  Ay,  if  he  stood  alone  ;  if  he  were  even  going  to  live  in 
England  ;  if  he  would  let  himself  be  himself  But  public 
opinion,"  sobbed  the  poor  self-tormentor,  —  "It  has  been 
his  God,  Sabina,  to  be  a  leader  of  taste  and  fashion  —  ad- 
mired and  complete  —  the  Crichton  of  Newport  and  Sarato- 
ga, And  he  could  not  bear  scorn,  the  loss  of  society.  Why 
should  he  bear  it  for  me  ?  If  he  had  been  one  of  the  aboli- 
tionist party,  it  would  have  been  diflFerent  ;  but  he  has  no 
sympathy  with  them, —  good,  narrow,  pious  people, —  or  they 
with  him  ;  he  could  not  be  satisfied  in  their  society,  or  1 
either,  for  I  crave  after  it  all  as  much  as  he  —  wealth,  lux- 
ury, art,  brilliant  company,  admiration,  —  0,  inconsistent 
wretch  that  I  am  !  And  that  makes  me  love  him  all  the 
more,  and  yet  makes  me  so  harsh  to  him,  wickedly  cruel, 
as  I  was  to-day  ;  because,  when  I  am  reproving  his  weak- 
ness, I  am  reproving  my  own,  and  because  I  am  angry  with 
myself,  I  grow  angry  with  him  too  —  envious  of  him,  I  do 
believe  at  moments,  and  all  his  success  and  luxury  !  " 

And  so  poor  Marie  sobbed  out  her  confused  confession  of 
that  strange  double  nature  which  so  many  Quadroons  seem 
to  owe  to  their  mixed  blood  ;  a  strong  side  of  deep  feeling, 
ambition,  energy,  an  intellect  rather  Greek  in  its  rapidity 
than  English  in  sturdiness  ;  and  withal  a  weak  side,  of 
instability,  inconsistency,  hasty  passion,  love  of  present 
enjoyment,  sometimes,  too,  a  tendency  to  untruth,  which  is 
the  mark,  not  perhaps  of  the  African  specially,  but  of  every 
enslaved  race. 

Consolation  was  all  that  Sabina  could  give.  It  was  too 
late  to  act.  Stangrave  was  gone,  and  week  after  week 
rolled  by  without  a  line  from  the  wanderer. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    EECOGNITION. 

Elsley  YiVASOUR  is  sitting-  one  morning  in  his  study, 
every  comfcit  of  which  is  of  Lucia's  arrangement  and  in- 
vention, beating  the  home-preserve  of  his  brains  for  pretty 
thoughts.  On  he  struggles  tlirough  that  wild,  and  too  luxu- 
riant cover  ;  now  brought  up  by  a  "  lawyer,"  now  stumbling 
over  a  root,  now  bogged  in  a  green  spring,  now  flushing-  a 
stray  covey  of  birds  of  Paradise,  now  a  sphinx,  chimera, 
strix,  lamia,  fire-drake,  flying-donkey,  two-headed  eagle 
(Austrian,  as  will  appear  shortly),  or  other  portent  only  to 
be  seen  now-a-days  in  the  recesses  of  that  enchanted  forest, 
the  convolutions  of  a  poet's  brain.  Up  they  whir  and  rat- 
tle, making,  like  most  game,  more  noise  than  they  are 
worth.  Some  get  back,  some  dodge  among  the  trees  ;  the 
fair  shots  are  few  and  far  between  ;  but  Elsley  blazes  away 
right  and  left  with  trusty  quill,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  sel- 
dom misses  his  aim,  for  practice  has  made  him  a  sure  and 
quick  marksman  in  his  own  line.  Moreover,  all  is  game 
which  gets  up  to-day  ;  for  he  is  shooting  for  tlje  kitchen,  or 
rather  for  the  London  market,  as  many  a  noble  sportsman 
does  now-a-days,  and  thinks  no  shame.  His  new  volume 
of  poems  ("The  Wreck"  included)  is  in  the  press;  but, 
behold,  it  is  not  as  long  as  the  publisher  thiidvs  fit,  and 
Messrs.  Brown  and  Younger  have  written  down  to  entreat 
in  haste  for  some  four  huiulred  lines  more,  on  any  subject 
which  Mr.  Vavasour  may  choose.  And,  therefore,  i«  Elsley 
beating  his  home  covers,  heavily  shot  over  though  they 
have  been  already  this  season,  in  hopes  that  a  few  head  of 
his  own  game  may  still  be  left ;  or,  in  default  (for  humaji 
nature  is  the  same,  in  poets  and  in  sportsmen),  that  a  few 
head  may  have  strayed  in  out  of  his  neighbors'  manors. 

At  last  the  sport  slackens  ;  for  the  sportsman  is  getting 
tired,  and  hungry  also,  to  carry  on  the  metaphor  ;  ibr  he 
has  seen  the  postman  come  up  the  front  walk  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  since,  and  the  letters  have  not  been  brought  in  yet. 

At  last  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  he  answers  by 

(148) 


THE   EECOGNITION.  149 

a  somewhat  testy  ''come  in."  But  he  checks  the  coming 
grumble,  when  not  the  maid,  but  Lucia,  enters. 

Why  not  grumble  at  Lucia  ?  He  has  done  so  many  a 
time. 

Because  she  looks  this  morning  so  charming ;  really 
quite  pretty  again,  so  radiant  is  her  face  with  smiles.  And 
because,  also,  she  holds  triumphant  above  her  head  a  news- 
paper. 

She  dances  up  to  him — • 

"  I  have  something  for  you." 

"  For  me  ?     Why,  the  post  has  been  in  this  half-hour." 

"  Yes,  for  you,  and  that's  just  the  reason  why  I  kept  il 
myself.     D'  ye  understand  my  Irish  reasoning  ?  " 

"  No,  you  pretty  creature,"  said  Elsley,  who  saw  that 
whatever  tlie  news  was,  it  was  good  news. 

"  Pretty  creature,  am  I  ?  1  was  once,  I  know ;  but  I 
thought  you  had  forgotten  all  about  tliat.  But  I  was  not 
going  to  let  you  have  the  paper  till  I  had  devoured  every 
word  of  it  myself  first." 

"  Lvi^ry  word  of  what  ?  " 

"  Oi  what  3^ou  shan't  have  unless  you  promise  to  be  good 
for  a  week.  Such  a  Review  ;  and  from  America  !  What  a 
dear  man  he  must  be  who  wrote  it !  I  really  think  I  should 
kiss  him  if  I  met  him." 

"  And  I  really  think  he  would  not  say  no.  But,  as  he  's 
not  here,  I  shall  act  as  his  proxy." 

"  Be  quiet,  and  read  that,  if  you  can,  for  blushes  ;  "  and 
she  spread  out  the  paper  before  him,  and  then  covered  his 
eyes  with  her  hands.  "  No,  you  shan't  see  it ;  it  will  make 
you  vain." 

Elsley  had  looked  eagerly  at  the  honeyed  columns  (as 
who  would  not  have  done  ?)  ;  but  the  last  word  smote  him. 
What  was  he  thinking  of?  his  own  praise,  or  his  wife's 
love  ? 

"  Too  true,"  he  cried,  looking  up  at  her.  "  You  dear 
creature  —  vain  I  am,  God  forgive  me  ;  but  before  I  look  al 
a  word  of  this  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you." 

"I  can't  stop;  I  must  run  back  to  the  children.  No; 
now  don't  look  ci'oss,"  as  his  brow  clouded  ;  "  I  only  said 
that  to  tease  you.  I  '11  stop  with  you  ten  whole  miimtes, 
if  you  won't  look  so  very  solemn  and  important.  1  hate 
tragedy  faces.     Now,  what  is  it  ?  " 

As  all  this  was  spoken  while  both  her  hands  were  clasped 
fi'^und  Elsley's  neck,  and  with  looks  and  tones  of  the  very 
sweetest  as  well  as  the  very  sauciest,  no  offence  was 
13* 


150  THE   RECOGNITION. 

given,  and  none  taken  ;  but  Elsley's  voice  was  sad  as  be 
asked,  — 

"  So  you  really  do  caro  for  my  poems  ?  " 

"  You  great  silly  creature  !  VVhy  else  did  I  marry  you 
at  all  ?  As  if  I  cared  for  anything  in  the  world  but  your 
poems  ;  as  if  I  did  not  love  everybody  who  praises  them  ; 
and,  if  any  stupid  reviewer  dares  to  say  a  word  ;igaiiist 
them,  I  could  kill  him  on  the  spot.  I  care  for  nothing  in 
the  world  but  what  people  say  of  you.  And  yet  I  don't 
care  one  pin  !  I  know  what  your  poems  are,  if  nobody  else 
does  ;  and  they  belong  to  me,  because  you  belong  to  me, 
and  I  must  be  the  best  judge,  and  care  for  nobody,  no,  not 
1 !  "  —  And  she  began  singing,  and  then  hung  over  him, 
tormenting  him  lovingly  while  he  read. 

It  was  a  true  American  review,  utterly  extravagant  in  its 
laudations,  whether  from  over-kindness,  or  from  a  certain 
love  of  exaggeration  and  magniloquence,  which  makes  one 
suspect  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  Transatlantic  gentle- 
men of  the  press  must  be  natives  of  the  sister  isle  ;  but  it 
was  all  the  more  pleasant  to  the  soul  of  Elsley. 

"  There,"  said  Lucia,  as  she  clung  croodling  to  him  ; 
"  there  is  a  pretty  character  of  you,  sir  !  Make  tlie  most  ot 
it,  for  it  is  all  those  Yankees  will  ever  send  jou." 

"Yes,"  said  Elsley,  "  if  they  would  send  one  a  little 
money,  instead  of  making  endless  dollars  by  printing  one's 
books,  and  then  a  few  more  by  praising  one  at  a  penny  a 
line." 

"That's  talking  like  a  man  of  business  ;  if,  instead  of 
the  review,  now,  a  check  for  fifty  pounds  had  come,  how  I 
would  have  rushed  out  and  paid  the  bills  !  " 

"  And  liked  it  a  great  deal  better  than  tlie  review  ?  " 

"  You  jealous  creature  !  No.  If  I  could  always  have 
you  praised,  I  'd  live  in  a  cabin,  and  go  about  the  world 
barefoot,  like  a  wild  Irish  girl." 

"  You  would  make  a  very  charming  one." 

"  I  used  to  once,  I  can  tell  you.  Valencia  and  I  used  to 
run  about  without  shoes  and  stockings  at  Kilanbaggan,  an. J 
you  can't  think  how  pretty  and  white  this  little  foot  used 
to  look  on  a  nice  soft  carpet  of  green  moss.'' 

"  I  shall  write  a  sonnet  to  it." 

"  You  may,  if  you  choose,  provided  you  don't  pub- 
lish it." 

"  You  may  trust  me  for  that.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who 
anatomize  their  own  married  happiness  for  the  edification 


THE   RECOGNITION.  151 

of  the  whole  public,  and  make  fame,  if  not  money,  out  of 
their  own  wives'  heart." 

"  HoAV  I  should  hate  you,  if  you  did  !  Not  that  I  believe 
their  fine  stories  about  themselves.  At  least,  I  am  certain 
it 's  only  half  the  story.  They  have  their  quarrels,  my 
dear,  just  as  you  and  1  have  ;  but  they  take  care  not  to 
put  them  into  poetry." 

"  Well,  but  who  could  ?  Whether  they  have  a  right  or 
not  to  pubHsh  the  poetical  side  of  their  married  life,  it  is  too 
much  to  ask  them  to  give  you  the  unpoetical  also." 

"  Then  they  are  all  humbugs  ;  and  1  believe,  if  they  really 
love  their  wives  so  very  much,  they  would  not  be  at  all  that 
pains  to  persuade  the  world  of  it." 

"You  are  very  satirical  and  spiteful,  ma'am." 

"  I  alwaj's  am  when  I  am  pleased.  If  I  am  particularly 
happy,  I  always  long  to  pinch  somebody.  I  suppose  it  'a 
Irish  — 

'Comes  out,  meets  a  friend,  and  for  love  knocks  him  down.'" 

"  But  you  know,  you  rogue,  that  you  care  to  read  no 
poetry  but  love  poetry." 

"  Of  course  not ;  every  woman  does  ;  but  let  me  find  you 
publishing  any  such  about  me,  and  see  what  I  will  do  to 
you  !  There,  now  I  must  go  to  my  work,  and  you  go  and 
write  something  extra-superfinely  grand,  because  I  have 
been  so  good  to  you.  No.  Let  me  go  ;  what  a  bother  you 
are !     Good-by." 

And  awa}^  she  tripped,  and  he  returned  to  his  work,  hap- 
pier than  he  had  been  for  a  week  past. 

His  happiness,  truly,  was  only  on  the  surface.  The  old 
wound  had  been  salved  —  as  what  wound  cannot  be  ?  —  by 
woman's  love  and  woman's  wit  ;  but  it  was  not  healed.  The 
cause  of  his  wrong-doing,  the  vain,  self-indulgent  spirit,  was 
there  still  uuchastened  ;  and  he  was  destined,  that  very 
day,  to  find  that  he  had  still  to  bear  the  punishment  of  it. 

Now  the  reader  must  understand,  that  though  one  may 
laugh  at  Elsley  Vavasour,  because  it  is  more  pleasant  than 
scolding  at  him,  yet  have  Philistia  and  Fogeydom  neither 
right  nor  reason  to  consider  him  a  despicable  or  merely 
ludicrous  person,  or  to  cry,  "  Ah,  if  he  had  been  as  we  are  !  " 

Had  he  been  merely  ludicrous,  Lucia  would  never  have 
married  him  ;  and  he  could  only  have  been  spoken  of  with 
indignation,  or  left  utterly  out  of  the  story,  as  a  simply 
unpleasant  figure,  bej'ond  the  purposes  of  a  novel,  though 
admissible  now  and  then  into  tragedy     One  cannot  lieartily 


152  TFlK    RECOGNITION. 

laugh  at  a  man  if  one  has  not  a  lurking  love  for  him,  as  one 
really  ought  to  have  for  Elsley.  How  much  value  is  to  be 
attached  to  his  mere  power  of  imagination,  and  fancy,  and 
BO  forth,  is  a  question  ;  but  there  was  in  him  more  than 
mere  talent.  There  was,  in  thought  at  least,  virtue  and 
magnaiiiniily. 

True,  the  best  part  of  him,  perhaps  almost  all  the  good 
part  of  him,  spent  itself  in  words,  and  must  be  looked  for, 
not  in  his  life,  but  in  his  books.  But  in  those  books  it  can 
be  found  ;  and  if  you  look  through  them  you  will  see  that 
he  has  not  touched  upon  a  subject  without  taking,  on  the 
whole,  the  right,  and  pure,  and  lofty  view  of  it.  Howso- 
ever extravagant  he  may  be  in  his  notions  of  poetic  license, 
that  license  is  never  with  him  a  synonynie  for  licentious- 
ness. Wiiatever  is  tender  and  true,  whatever  is  chivalrous 
and  high-minded,  he  loves  at  first  siglit,  and  reproduces  it 
lovingly.  And  it  may  be  possible  that  his  own  estimate  of 
his  poems  was  not  altogether  wrong  ;  that  his  words  may 
have  awakened  here  and  there  in  others  a  love  for  that 
which  is  morally  as  v/ell  as  physically  beautiful,  and  may 
have  kept  alive  in  their  hearts  the  recollection  that,  both 
for  the  bodies  and  the  souls  of  men,  forms  of  life  far  nobler 
and  fairer  than  those  which  we  see  now  are  possible  ;  that 
they  have  appeared,  in  fragments  at  least,  already  on  the 
earth  ;  that  they  are  destined,  perhaps,  to  reappear  and 
combine  themselves  in  some  ideal  state,  and  in 

"  One  far-off  divine  event, 
Toward  which  the  whole  creation  moves." 

This  is  the  special  and  proper  function  of  the  poet  ;  that  he 
may  do  this,  does  God  touch  his  lips  with  that  which,  how- 
ever it  may  be  misused,  is  still  fire  from  ofi'the  altar  beneath 
which  the  spirits  of  his  saints  cry,  "  Lord,  how  long  ?  "  If 
he  "  reproduce  the  beautiful  "  with  this  intent,  however  so 
little,  tlicn  is  he  of  the  sacred  guild.  And  because  Vavasour 
had  this  gift  therefore  he  was  a  poet. 

But  in  this  he  was  weak  :  that  he  did  not  feel,  or  at  least 
was  forgetting  fast,  that  this  gift  had  been  bestowed  on 
him  for  any  practical  purpose.  No  one  would  demand  that 
he  should  have  gone  forth,  with  some  grand  social  scheme, 
to  reform  a  world  which  looked  to  him  so  mean  and  evil. 
He  was  not  a  man  of  business,  and  was  not  meant  to  bo 
one.  But  it  was  ill  for  him  that  in  his  fastidiousness  and 
touchiness  he  had  shut  himself  out  from  that  world,  until 
he  had  quite  forgotten  how  much  good  there  was  in  it  as 


THE   RECOGNITION.  163 

well  as  evil  ;  how  many  people  —  common-place  and  unpo* 
etical  it  may  be,  but  still  heroical  in  God's  sight  —  were 
working-  harder  than  he  overworked,  at  the  divine  drudgery 
of  doiug  good,  and  that  in  dens  of  darkness  and  sloughs  of 
.  filth  from  which  he  would  have  turned  with  disgust ;  so  that 
the  sympathy  with  the  sinful  and  fallen  which  marks  his 
earlier  poems,  and  which  perhaps  verges  on  sentimentalism, 
gradually  gives  place  to  a  pharisaic  and  contemptuous  tone  ; 
a  tone  more  lofty  and  manful  in  seeming,  but  far  less  divine 
in  fact.  Perhaps  comparative  success  had  injured  him. 
Whilst  struggling  himself  against  circumstances,  poor, 
untaught,  uuhappy,  he  had  more  fellow-feeling  with  those 
whom  circumstance  oppressed.  At  least,  the  pity  which 
he  could  once  bestow  upon  the  misery  which  he  met  in  his 
daily  walks,  he  now  kept  for  the  more  picturesque  woes  of 
Italy  and  Greece. 

In  this,  too,  he  was  weak  :  that  he  had  altogether  forgot- 
ten that  the  fire  from  off  the  altar  could  only  be  kept  alight 
by  continual  self-restraint  and  self-sacrifice,  by  continual 
gentleness  and  humility,  shown  in  the  petty  matters  of 
e very-day  home-life  ;  and  that  he  who  cannot  rule  his  own 
household  can  never  rule  the  church  of  God.  And  so  it 
befell,  that  amid  the  little  cross-blasts  of  home  squabbles  the 
sacred  spark  was  fast  going  out.  The  poems  written  after 
he  settled  at  Penalva  are  marked  by  a  less  definite  purpose, 
by  a  lower  tone  of  feeUng  ;  not,  perhaps,  by  a  lower  moral 
tone,  but  simply  by  less  of  any  moral  tone  at  all.  They  are 
more  and  more  full  of  merely  sensuous  beauty,  mere  word- 
painting,  mere  word-hunting.  The  desire  of  finding  some- 
thing worth  saying  gives  place  more  and  more  to  that  of 
saying  something  in  a  new  fashion.  As  the  originality  of 
thought  (which  accompanies  only  vigorous  moral  purpose) 
decreases,  the  attempt  at  originality  of  language  increases 
Manner,  in  short,  has  taken  the  place  of  matter.  The  art, 
it  may  be,  of  his  latest  poems  is  greatest ;  but  it  has  been 
expended  on  the  most  unworthy  tliemes.  The  later  are 
mannered  caricatures  of  the  earlier,  without  their  soul  ; 
and  the  same  change  seems  to  have  passed  over  him  which 
(with  Mr.  Ptuskin's  pardon)  transformed  the  Turner  of  1820 
into  the  Turner  of  1850. 

Thus  had  Elsley  transferred  what  sympathy  he  had  left 
from  needle-women  and  ragged  schools,  dwellers  in  Jacob's 
Island  and  sleepers  in  the  dry  arches  of  Waterloo  Bridge, 
to  sufferers  of  a  more  poetic  class.  Whether  his  sympa- 
thies showed  thereby  that  he  had  risen  or  fallen,  let  my 


154  THE   RECOGNITION. 

readers  decide  each  for  himself.  It  is  a  credit  to  any  man 
to  feel  for  any  human  being  ;  and  Italy,  as  she  is  at  this 
moment,  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  tragic  spectacles  which 
the  world  has  ever  seen.  Elsley  need  not  be  blamed  for 
pitying  her  ;  only  for  holding,  with  most  of  our  poets,  a 
vague  notion  that  her  woes  were  to  be  cured  by  a  hair  of 
the  dog  who  bit  her  :  namely,  by  homojoputhic  doses  of  that 
same  "  art  "  which  has  been  all  along  her  morbid  and  self- 
deceiving  substitute  for  virtue  and  industry.  So,  as  she 
had  sung  herself  down  to  the  nether  pit,  Elsley  would  help 
to  sing  her  up  again  ;  and  had  already  been  throwing  off, 
ever  since  1848,  a  series  of  sonnets  which  he  entitled  Eury- 
dice,  intimating,  of  course,  that  he  acted  as  the  Orpheus. 
Whether  he  had  hopes  of  drawing  iron  tears  down  Pluto 
Radetzky's  cheek,  does  not  appear :  but  certainly  the 
longer  poem  which  had  sprung  from  his  fancy,  at  the 
urgent  call  of  Messrs.  Brown  and  Younger,  would  have 
been  likely  to  draw  nothing  but  iron  balls  from  Radetzky's 
cannon ;  or  failing  so  vast  an  effect,  an  immediate  external 
application  to  the  poet  himself  of  that  famous  herb  Panta- 
gruelion,  cure  for  all  public  ills  and  private  woes,  which 
men  call  hemp.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  noble  subject ;  one 
which  ought  surely  to  have  been  taken  up  -by  some  of  our 
poets,  for  if  they  do  not  make  a  noble  poem  of  it,  it  will  be 
their  own  fault.  I  mean  that  sad  and  fantastic  tragedy  of 
Pra  Dolcino  and  Margaret,  which  Signer  Mariotti  has  lately 
given  to  the  English  public,  in  a  book  which,  both  for  its 
matter  and  its  manner,  should  be  better  known  than  it  is. 
Elsley's  soul  had  been  filled  (it  would  have  been  a  dull  one 
else)  with  the  conception  of  the  handsome  and  gifted  patriot- 
monk,  his  soul  delirious  with  the  dream  of  realizing  a  per- 
fect church  on  earth  ;  battling  with  tongue  and  pen,  and  at 
last  with  sword,  against  the  villanies  of  pope  and  Kaiser, 
and  all  the  old  devourers  of  the  earth,  cheered  only  by  (he 
wild  love  of  her  who  had  given  up  wealth,  fame,  friends,  all 
which  render  life  worth  having,  to  die  with  him  a  death  too 
horrible  for  words.  And  he  had  conceived  (and  not  alto- 
gether ill)  a  vision,  in  which,  wandering  along  some  bright 
Italian  bay,  he  met  Dolcino  sitting,  a  spirit  at  rest  but  not 
yet  glorified,  waiting  for  the  revival  of  that  dead  land  for 
which  he  had  died  ;  and  Margaret  by  him,  dipping  her 
scorched  feet  forever  in  the  cooling  wave,  and  looking  up 
to  the  hero  for  whom  she  had  given  up  all,  with  eyes  of 
everlasting  love.  There  they  were  to  prophesy  to  him  Buch 
things  as  seemed  lit  to  him,  of  the  future  of  Ita.y  and  of 


THE   EECOGNITION.  155 

Europe,  of  the  doom  of  priests  and  tyrants,  of  the  sorrows 
and  rewards  of  genius  unappreciated  and  before  its  age  ;  for 
Elsley's  secret  vanity  could  see  in  himself  a  far  greater  like- 
ness to  Dolcino,  than  Dolcino  —  the  preacher,  confessor, 
bender  of  all  hearts,  man  of  the  world,  and  man  of  action, 
at  last  crafty  and  all  but  unconquerable  guerilla  warrior  — 
would  ever  have  acknowledged  in  the  self  indulgent  dreamer 
However,  it  was  a  fair  conception  enough ;  though  perhaps 
it  never  would  have  entered  Elsley's  head,  had  Shelley 
never  written  the  opening  canto  of  the  Revolt  of  Islam 

So  Elsley,  on  a  burning  July  forenoon,  strolled  up  the 
lane  and  over  the  down  to  King  Arthur's  Nose,  that  he 
might  find  materials  for  his  sea-shore  scene.  For  he  was 
not  one  of  those  men  who  live  in  such  quiet,  every-day 
communication  with  nature,  that  they  drink  in  her  various 
aspects  as  unconsciously  as  the  air  they  breathe,  and  so  can 
reproduce  them,  out  of  an  inexhaustible  stock  of  details, 
simpl}'  and  accurately,  and  yet  freshly  too,  tinged  by  the 
peculiar  hue  of  the  mind  in  which  they  have  been  long 
sleeping.  He  walked  the  world,  either  blind  to  the  beauty 
round  him,  and  trying  to  compose  instead  some  little  scrap 
of  beauty  in  his  own  self-imprisoned  thoughts,  or  else  he 
was  looking  out  consciously  and  spasmodically  for  views, 
effects,  emotions,  images  ;  something  striking  and  uncom- 
mon which  would  suggest  a  poetic  figure,  or  help  out  a 
description,  or  in  some  way  re-furnish  his  mind  with  thought. 
From  which  method  it  befell  that  his  lamp  of  truth  was  too 
often  burnt  out  just  when  it  was  needed  ;  and  that,  like  the 
foolish  virgins,  he  had  to  go  and  buy  oil  when  it  was  too 
late  ;  or,  failing  that,  to  supply  its  place  with  some  baser 
artificial  material. 

That  day,  however,  he  was  fortunate  enough  ;  for,  wan- 
dering and  scrambling  among  the  rocks,  at  a  dead  low  spring 
tide,  he  came  upon  a  spot  which  would  have  made  a  poem 
of  itself  better  than  all  Elsley  ever  wrote,  had  he,  forget- 
ting all  about  Fra  Dolcino,  Italy,  priests,  and  tyrants,  set 
down  in  black  and  white  just  what  he  saw  ;  provided,  of 
course,  that  he  had  patience  first  to  see  the  same. 

It  was  none  other  than  that  ghastly  chasm  across  which 
Th  urn  all  had  been  so  miraculously  swept,  on  tlie  night  of 
his  shipwreck.  The  same  ghastly  chasm  ;  but  ghastly  now 
no  longer  ;  and  as  Elsley  looked  down,  the  beauty  below 
invited  him,  and  the  coolness  also  ;  for  the  sun  beat  on  the 
Oat  rock  above  till  it  scorched  the  feet,  and  dazzled  the  eye, 
and  crisped  up  the  blackening  sea-weeds  ;  while  every  sea- 


156  THE   RECOGNITION, 

snail  crept  to  hide  itself  under  the  bladder-tangle,  and  notb 
ing  dared  to  peep  or  stir  save  certain  grains  ot  gunpowder, 
which  seemed  to  have  gone  mad,  so  merrily  did  they  hop 
about  upon  the  suriace  of  the  fast  evaporating  salt-pools. 
That  wonder,  indeed,  Elsley  stooped  to  examine,  and  drew 
back  his  hand  with  an  "  ugh  !  "  and  a  gesture  of  disgust, 
when  he  found  that  they  were  "nasty  little  insects."  For 
Elsley  held  fully  the  poet's  right  to  believe  that  all  things 
are  not  very  good  ;  none,  indeed,  save  such  as  suited  his 
eclectic  and  fastidious  taste  ;  and  to  hold  (on  high  festhetic 
grounds,  of  course)  toads  and  spiders  in  as  much  abhor- 
rence as  does  any  boarding-school  girl.  However,  finding 
some  rock  ledges  which  formed  a  natural  ladder,  down  he 
scrambled,  gingerly  enough,  for  he  was  neither  an  active 
nor  a  courageous  man.  But,  once  down,  I  will  do  him  the 
justice  to  say  that  for  five  whole  minutes  he  forgot  all 
about  Fra  Dolcino,  and,  what  was  better,  about  himself 
also. 

The  chasm  may  have  been  fifteen  feet  deep,  and,  above, 
about  half  that  breadth  ;  but  below  the  waves  had  hol- 
lowed it  into  dark  overhanging  caverns.  Just  in  front  of 
him  a  huge  boulder  spanned  the  crack,  and  formed  a  natu- 
ral doorway,  through  which  he  saw,  like  a  picture  set  in  a 
frame,  the  far-ofl'blue  sea  softening  into  the  blue  sky  among 
brown  Eastern  haze.  Amid  the  haze  a  single  ship  hung 
motionless,  like  a  white  cloud.  Nearer,  a  black  cormorant 
floated  sleepily  along,  and  dived,  and  rose  again.  Nearer 
again,  long  lines  of  flat  tide-rock,  glittering  and  quivering 
in  the  heat,  sloped  gradually  under  the  waves,  till  they 
ended  in  halfsunken  beds  of  olive  oar-weed,  which  bent 
their  tangled  stems  into  a  hundred  graceful  curves,  and 
swayed  to  and  fro  slowly  and  sleepily.  The  low  swell  slid 
whispering  among  their  floating  palms,  and  slipped  on 
toward  the  cavern's  mouth,  as  if  asking  wistfully  (so  Els- 
ley fimcied)  when  it  would  bo  time  for  it  to  return  to  that 
cool  shade,  and  hide  from  all  the  blinding  blaze  outside. 
But  when  his  eye  was  enough  accustomed  to  the  shade 
within,  it  withdrew  gladly  from  the  glaring  sea  and  glaring 
tide-rocks  to  the  walls  of  the  chasm  itself;  to  curved  and 
polished  sheets  of  stone,  rich  brown,  with  snow-white  vc'ins, 
on  which  danced  forever  a  dappled  network  of  pale  j'oUow 
light ;  to  crusted  beds  of  pink  coralline  ;  to  caverns,  in  the 
dark  crannies  of  which  hung  branching  sponges  and  tufts 
of  purple  sea-moss  ;  to  strips  of  clear  white  sand  bestrewn 
with  shells  ;  to  pools,  each  a  gay  flower-garden  of  all  hues, 


THE    RECOGNITION.  157 

ivhere  branching  sea-weeds  reflected  blue  light  Irom  every 
point,  like  a  thousand  damasked  sword-blades  ;  while  among 
them  dahlias  and  chrysanthemums,  and  many  another  mimic 
of  our  earth-born  flowers,  spread  blooms  of  crimson  and 
purple,  and  lilac,  and  creamy  gray,  halt-buried  among  feath- 
ered weeds  as  brightly  colored  as  they  ;  and  strange  and 
gaudy  fishes  shot  across  from  side  to  side,  and  chased  each 
other  in  and  out  of  hidden  cells. 

Within  and  without  all  was  at  rest.  The  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  timid  whisper  of  the  swell,  and  by  the  chime 
of  dropping  water  within  some  unseen  cave.  But  what  a 
diflFerent  rest !  Without,  all  lying  breathless,  stupefied, 
sun-stricken,  in  blinding  glare;  within,  all  coolness  and 
refreshing  sleep.  Without,  all  simple,  broad,  and  vast ; 
within,  all  various,  with  infinite  richness  of  form  and  color. 
An  Hairoun  Alraschid's  bower,  looking  out  upon  the  — 

Bother  the  fellow  !  Why  Avill  he  go  on  analyzing  and 
figuring  in  this  way  ?  Why  not  let  the  blessed  place  tell 
him  what  it  means,  instead  of  telling  it  what  he  thinks? 
And  — why,  he  is  actually  writing  verses,  though  not  about 
Fra  Dolcino  ! 

"  How  rests  yon  rock,  whose  half-day's  bath  is  done, 
'With  broad,  bright  side  beneath  the  broad,  bright  sun, 

Like  seiX-nymph  tired,  on  cushioned  mosses  sleeping. 
Yet,  nearer  drawn,  beneath  her  purple  tresses. 

From  down-bent  brows  we  find  her  slowly  weeping  ; 
So  many  a  heart  for  cruel  man's  caresses 

Must  only  pine  and  pine,  and  yet  must  bear 

A  gallant  front  beneath  life's  gaudy  glare." 

Silly  fellow  !  Do  you  think  that  Nature  had  time  to  think 
of  such  a  far-fetched  conceit  as  that  while  it  was  making 
that  rock  and  peopling  it  with  a  million  tiny  living  things, 
of  which  not  one  falleth  to  the  ground  without  your  Father's 
knowledge,  and  each  more  beautiful  than  any  sea-nymph 
whom  you  ever  fancied  ?  For,  after  all,  you  cannot  fancy  a 
whole  sea-nymph  (perhaps  in  that  case  you  could  make 
one),  but  only  a  very  little  scrap  of  her  outside.  Or  if,  as 
you  boast,  you  are  inspired  by  the  Creative  Spirit,  tell  us 
what  the  Creative  Spirit  says  about  that  rock,  and  not  such 
verse  as  that,  the  lesson  of  which  you  don't  yourself  really 
feel ,  Pretty  enough  it  is,  perhaps  ;  but  in  your  haste  to 
say  a  pretty  thing,  just  because  it  was  pretty,  you  have  not 
cared  to  condemn  yourself  out  of  youi  own  mouth.  Why 
were  you  sulky,  sir,  with  Mrs.  Vavasoui  this  very  morning,, 
after  all  that  passed,  because  she  would  look  over  the  wash 
14 


158  THE    RECOGNITION. 

ing-books,  while  you  v/anted  her  to  hear  about  Fra  Dolcino  ? 
And  why,  though  she  was  up  to  her  knees  among  your  dirty 
sliirts  when  you  went  out,  did  you  not  give  licr  one  parting 
kiss,  which  wonKl  have  transfigured  her  virtuous  drudgery 
for  her  into  a  sacred  pleasure  ?  One  is  heartily  glad  to  see 
yt)u  disturbed,  cross  though  you  may  look  at  it,  by  that 
sturdy  step  and  jolly  whistle  which  burst  in  on  you  from  the 
other  end  of  the  chasm,  as  Tom  Thurnall,  with  an  old  smock 
frack  over  his  coat,  and  a  large  basket  on  his  arm,  comes 
stumbling  and  hopping  towards  you,  dropping  every  now 
and  then  on  hands  and  knees,  and  turning  over  on  his  back, 
to  squeeze  his  head  into  some  muddj'^  crack,  and  then  with- 
draw it  with  the  salt  water  dripping  down  his  nose. 

Elsley  closed  his  eyes,  and  rested  his  head  on  his  hand 
in  a  somewhat  studied  "  pose."  But,  as  he  wished  not  to  be 
interrupted,  it  may  have  not  been  altogether  unpardonable 
to  pretend  sleep.  However,  the  sleeping  posture  had 
exactly  the  opposite  effect  to  that  which  he  designed. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Vavasour  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  quoth  he,  slowly,  if  not  sulkily. 

"  I  admire  your  taste,  sir ;  a  charming  summer-house  old 
Triton  has  vacated  for  your  use  ;  but  let  me  advise  you  not 
to  go  to  sleep  in  it." 

"  Why  then,  sir  ?  " 

"Because  —  it's  no  business  of  mine,  of  course  ;  but 
the  tide  has  turned  already  ;  and,  if  a  breeze  springs  up, 
old  Triton  will  be  back  again  in  a  hurry,  and  in  a  rage,  also  ; 
and  —  I  may  possibly  lose  a  good  patient." 

Elsley,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  tides,  save  that  "  the 
moon  wooed  the  ocean,"  or  some  such  important  fact, 
thanked  him  coolly  enough,  and  returned  to  a  meditative 
attitude.  Tom  saw  that  he  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  and 
went  on.  But  he  had  not  gone  three  steps  before  he  pxdlcd 
u))  short,  slapping  his  hands  together  once,  as  a  man  does 
who  has  found  what  lie  wants  ;  and  then  plunged  up  to  his 
knees  in  a  rock  pool,  and  began  working  very  gently  at 
Koinething  under  water. 

Elsley  watched  him  for  full  five  minutes  with  so  much 
curiosity,  that,  despite  of  himself,  he  asked  him  what  he 
was  doing. 

Tom  had  his  whole  face  under  water,  and  did  not  hear 
till  Elsley  had  repeated  the  question. 

"  Only  a  rare  zoophyte,"  said  he,  at  last,  lifting  his  drip- 
ping visage,  and  gasping  for  breath ;  and  then  he  dived 
again. 


THE   RECOGNITION.  159 

"  Inexplicable  pedantry  of  science  !  "  thought  Elsley  to 
Dimself,  while  Tom  worked  on  steadfastly,  and  at  last  rose 
and,  taking  out  a  vial  from  his  basket,  was  about  to  deposit 
in  it  something  invisible. 

"  Stay  a  moment;  you  really  have  roused  my  curiosity 
by  your  earnestness.  May  I  see  what  it  is  for  which  jom 
have  taken  so  much  trouble  ?  " 

Tom  held  out  on  his  finger  tip  a  piece  of  slimy  crust,  the 
size  of  a  halfpenny.    Elsley  could  only  shrug  his  shoulders 

"Nothing  to  you,  sir,  I  doubt  not;  but  worth  a  guinea 
to  me,  even  if  it  be  only  to  mount  bits  of  it  as  microscope 
objects." 

"So  you  mingle  business  with  science?"  said  Elsley, 
rather  in  a  contemptuous  tone. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  must  live,  and  my  father  too  ;  and  it  is 
as  honest  a  way  of  making  money  as  any  other ;  I  poach 
in  no  man's  manor  for  my  game." 

"But  what  is  your  game?  What  possible  attraction 
in  that  bit  of  dirt  can  make  men  spend  their  money  on  it  ?  " 

"  You  shall  see,"  said  Tom,  dropping  it  into  the  vial  of 
salt  water,  and  offering  it  to  Elsley,  with  his  pocket  mag- 
nifier.    "  Judge  for  yourself." 

Elsley  did  so,  and  beheld  a  new  wonder  —  a  li\ang  plant 
of  crystal,  studded  with  crystal  bells,  from  each  of  which 
waved  a  crown  of  delicate  arms.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
Elsley  had  ever  seen  one  of  those  exquisite  zoophytes  which 
stud  every  rock  and  every  tuft  of  weed. 

"  This  is  most  beautiful,"  said  he  at  length. 

"Humph  !  why  should  not  Mr.  Vavasour  write  a  poem 
about  it  ? " 

Why  not,  indeed  ?  thought  Elsley. 

"  It 's  no  business  of  mine,  —  no  man's  less  ;  but  I  often 
wonder  why  you  poets  don't  take  to  the  microscope,  and 
tell  us  a  little  more  about  the  wonderful  things  which  are 
here  already,  and  not  about  those  which  are  not,  and  which, 
perhaps,  never  will  be." 

"  Well,"  said  Elsley,  after  another  look  ;  "  but,  after  all, 
these  things  have  no  human  interest  in  them." 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  they  have  to  me,  for  instance. 
These  are  the  things  which  I  would  write  about  if  I  had  any 
turn  for  verse,  not  about  human  nature,  of  which  I  know, 
I  'm  afraid,  a  little  too  much  already.  I  always  like  to 
read  old  '  Darwin's  Loves  of  the  Plants  ; '  bosh  as  it  is  in 
a  ecientific  point  of  view,  it  amuses  one  s  fancy  withont 


160  THE   RECOGNITION. 

making  one  lose  one's  temper,  as  one  must  when  one  bcgi  ig 
to  analyze  that  microscopic  ape  called  self  and  friends." 

"  You  would  like,  then,  the  old  Cosmog-onies,  the  J^ddas 
and  the  Vedas,"  said  Elsley,  getting  interested,  as  most 
people  did  after  five  minutes'  talk  with  the  cynical  doctor. 
"  I  suppose  you  would  not  say  much  for  their  science  ;  but, 
as  poetry,  they  are  just  what  you  ask  for  —  the  expression 
of  thoughtful  spirits,  who  looked  round  upon  nature  with 
awe-struck,  child-like  eyes,  and  asked  of  all  heaven  and 
earth  the  question,  '  What  are  you  ?  How  came  you  to 
be  ?  '  Yet  —  it  may  be  my  fault  —  while  I  admire  them,  I 
cannot  sympathize  with  them.  To  me,  this  zoophyte  is  as 
a  being  of  another  sphere  ;  and  till  I  can  create  some  link 
in  ray  own  mind  between  it  and  humanity  it  is  as  nothing 
in  my  eyes." 

"  There  is  link  enough,  sir,  don't  doubt,  and  chains  of 
iron  and  brass  too." 

"  You  believe,  then,  in  the  development  theory  of  the 
'  Vestiges  '  ?  " 

"  Doctors  who  have  their  bread  to  earn  never  commit 
themselves  to  theories.  No  ;  all  I  meant  was,  that  this 
little  zoophyte  lives  by  the  same  laws  as  you  and  I ;  and 
that  he,  and  the  sea-weeds,  and  so  forth,  teach  us  doctors 
certain  little  rules  concerning  life  and  death,  which  you 
will  have  a  chance  soon  of  seeing  at  work  on  the  most 
grand  and  poetical,  and  indeed  altogether  tragic  scale." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  When  the  cholera  comes  here,  as  it  will,  at  its  present 
pace,  before  the  end  of  the  summer,  then  I  shall  have  the 
zoophytes  rising  up  in  judgment  against  me,  if  I  have  not 
profited  by  a  leaf  out  of  their  book." 

"The  cholera?"  said  Elsley,  in  a  startled  voice,  forget- 
ting Tom's  parables  in  the  new  thought.  For  Elsley  had  a 
dread  more  nervous  than  really  coward  of  infectious  dis- 
eases ;  and  he  had  also  (and  prided  himself,  too,  on  having) 
all  Gothe's  dislike  of  anything  terrible  or  hon-ible,  of  sick- 
ness, disease,  wounds,  death,  anything  which  jarred  with 
that  "  beautiful  "  which  was  his  idol. 

"  The  cholera  ?  "  repeated  lie.  "  I  hope  not ;  I  wish  you 
had  not  mentioned  it,  Mr.  Thurnall." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  did  so,  if  it  offends  you.  I  had 
thought  that  forewarned  was  forearmed.  After  all,  it  is  no 
business  of  mine  ;  if  I  have  extra  labor,  as  I  shall  have,  I 
shall  have  extra  experience  ;  and  that  will  be  a  fair  set-off, 


THE   RECOGNITION.  161 

even  if  the  board  of  guardians  don't  vote  me  an  extra  remu- 
neration, as  they  ought  to  do." 

Elsley  was  struck  dumb  ;  first  by  the  certainty  which 
Tom's  words  expressed,  and  next  by  the  coohiess  of  their 
temper.  At  hxst  he  stammered  out,  "  Good  heavens,  Mr, 
Thurnall  !  you  do  not  talk  of  that  frightful  scourge  —  so 
disgusting,  too,  in  its  character  —  as  a  matter  of  profit  and 
loss  ?     It  is  sordid,  cold-hearted  !  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  if  I  let  myself  think,  much  more  talk, 
about  the  matter  in  any  other  tone,  I  should  face  the  thing 
poorly  enough  when  it  came.  I  shall  have  work  enough  to 
keep  my  head  about  the  end  of  August  or  beginning  of 
September,  and  I  must  not  lose  it  beforehand,  by  indulging 
in  any  horror,  disgust,  or  other  emotion  perfectly  justifiable 
in  a  layman." 

"  But  are  not  doctors  men  ?  " 

"  That  depends  very  much  on  what  'a  man'  means." 

"Men  with  human  sympathy  and  compassion." 

"  0,  I  mean  by  a  man,  a  man  with  human  strength.  My 
dear  sir,  one  may  be  too  bus}',  and  at  doing  good  too 
(though  that  is  not  my  line,  save  professionally,  because  it 
is  my  only  way  of  earning  money) ;  but  one  may  be  too 
busy  at  doing  good  to  have  time  for  compassion.  If,  while 
I  was  cutting  a  man's  leg  ofi",  I  thought  of  the  pain  which 
he  was  sufiering — " 

"Thank  Heaven,"  said  Elsley,  " that  it  was  not  my  lot 
to  become  a  medical  man !  " 

Tom  looked  at  him  with  the  quaintest  smile  ;  a  flush  of 
mingled  anger  and  contempt  had  been  rising  in  him  as  he 
heard  the  ex-bottle  boy  talking  sentiment ;  but  he  only 
went  on  quietly. 

"  No,  sir  ;  with  your  more  delicate  sensibilities,  you  may 
thank  Heaven  that  you  did  not  become  a  medical  man  ;  your 
life  would  have  been  one  of  torture,  disgust,  and  agonizing 
sense  of  responsibility.  But  do  you  not  see  that  you  inust 
thank  Heaven  for  the  sufllerer's  sake  also  ?  I  will  not  shock 
you  again  by  talking  of  amputation  ;  but  even  in  the  small- 
est matter — even  if  you  were  merely  sending  medicine  to 
an  old  maid  —  suppose  that  your  imagination  were  pre- 
occupied by  the  thought  of  her  old  age,  her  sufferings,  her 
disappointed  hopes,  her  regretful  dream  of  bygone  youth, 
and  beauty,  and  love,  and  all  the  tender  fancies  which  might 
well  spring  out  of  such  a  mournful  spectacle,  would  you  not 
be  but  too  likely  (pardon  the  bathos)  to  end  by  sending  her 
an  elderly  gentleman's  medicine  after  all,  and  so  eithei 
14* 


162  THE    RECOGNITION. 

« 

frightfully  increasing  her  suflcrings,  or  ending  them  once 
for  all  ? " 

Tom  said  this  in  the  most  quiet  and  natural  tone,  without 
even  a  twinkle  of  his  wicked  eye  ;  but  Elsiey  heard  liim  begin 
with  reddening  face  ;  and,  as  he  went  on,  the  red  had  turned 
to  purple,  and  tlien  to  deadly  yellow  ;  till,  making  a  halt- 
step  forward,  he  cried  fiercely  : 

"  Sir  !  "  and  then  stopped  suddenly  ;  for  his  feet  slipped 
upon  the  polished  stone,  and  on  his  face  he  fell  into  the 
pool  at  Thurnall's  feet. 

"  Well  for  both  of  us  geese  1  "  said  Tom,  inwardly,  as  he 
went  to  pick  him  up.  "  I  verily  believe  he  was  going  to 
strike  me,  and  that  would  have  done  for  neither  of  us.  I 
was  a  fool  to  say  it ;  but  the  temptation  was  so  exquisite  ; 
and  it  must  have  come  some  day," 

But  Vavasour  staggered  up  of  his  own  accord,  and  dash- 
ing away  Tom's  proffered  hand,  was  rushing  off  without  a 
word. 

"Not  so,  Mr.  John  Briggs  !  "  said  Tom,  making  up  liia 
mind  in  a  moment  that  he  must  have  it  out  now,  or  never  ; 
and  that  he  might  have  everything  to  fear  from  Vavasour  if 
he  let  him  go  home  furious.     "  We  do  not  part  thus,  sir  I  " 

"  We  will  meet  again,  if  you  will,"  foamed  Vavasoui, 
"but  it  shall  end  in  the  death  of  one  of  us  !  " 

"By  each  other's  potions?  I  can  doctor  myself,  sir, 
thank  you.  Listen  to  me,  John  Briggs  !  You  shall  listen  !  " 
and  Tom  sprang  past  him,  and  planted  himself  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock  steps,  to  prevent  his  escaping  upward. 

"  What,  do  you  wish  to  quarrel  with  me,  sir  ?  It  is  I 
who  ought  to  quarrel  with  you.  I  am  the  aggrieved  party, 
and  not  you,  sir  1  I  have  not  seen  the  son  of  the  man  who, 
when  I  was  an  apothecary's  boy,  petted  me,  lent  me  books, 
introduced  me  as  a  genius,  turned  my  head  for  me  —  which 
was  just  what  I  was  vain  enough  to  enjoy  —  I  have  not  seen 
that  man's  son  cast  ashore  penniless  and  friendless,  and  yet 
never  held  out  to  him  a  helping  hand,  but  tried  to  conceal 
my  identity  from  him,  from  a  dirty  shame  of  my  honest 
father's  hoi.cst  name." 

Vavasoui  dropped  his  eyes,  for  was  it  not  true  ?  but  he 
raised  them  again,  more  fiercely  than  ever. 

"  Curse  you  I  I  owe  you  nothing.  It  was  you  who 
made  me  ashamed  of  it.  You  rhymed  on  it,  and  laughed 
about  poetry  coming  out  of  such  a  name." 

"  And  what  if  I  did  ?  Are  poets  to  be  made  of  nothing 
but  tinder  and  gall  ?     Why  could  you  not  take  an  honest 


THE   RECOGNITION.  163 

* 
j5ke  as  it  was  meant,  and  go  your  way  like  other  people, 
till  you   had   shown  yourself  worth  something,  and   won 
honor  even,  for  the  name  of  Briggs  ?  " 

"  And  I  have  !  1  have  my  own  station  now,  my  own 
fame,  sir,  and  it  is  nothing  to  you  what  I  choose  to  call 
myself.  I  have  won  my  place,  I  say,  and  your  mean  envy 
cannot  rob  me  of  it." 

"  You  have  your  station.  Very  good,"  said  Tom,  not 
caring  to  notice  the  imputation  ;  '  you  owe  the  greater  part 
of  it  to  your  having  made  a  most  fortunate  marriage,  for 
which  I  respect  you,  as  a  practical  man.  Let  your  poetry 
be  what  it  may  (and  people  tell  me  that  it  is  really  very 
beautiful),  your  match  shows  me  that  you  are  a  clever,  and 
therefore  a  successful  person." 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  sordid  schemer,  like  yourself? 

I  loved  what  was  worthy  of  me,  and  won  it  because  I 
deserved  it." 

"  Then,  having  won  it,  treat  it  as  it  deserves,"  said  Tom, 
with  a  cool,  searching  look,  before  which  Vavasour's  eyes 
fell  again.  "  Understand  me,  Mr.  John  Briggs  ;  it  is  of  no 
consequence  to  me  what  you  call  yourself ;  but  it  is  of  con- 
Boquence  to  me  that  I  should  not  have  a  patient  in   my 

I I  tiish  whom  I  cannot  cure  ;  for  I  cannot  cure  broken 
Lcarts,  though  they  will  be  simple  enough  to  come  to  me 
for  medicine." 

"  You  shall  have  no  chance  !  You  shall  never  enter  my 
house  I     You  shall  not  ruin  me,  sir,  by  your  bills  !  " 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  this  fresh  insult.  He  had  another 
game  to  play. 

"  Take  care  what  you  say,  Briggs  ;  remember  that,  after 
all,  you  are  in  my  power,  and  1  had  better  remind  you 
plainly  of  the  fact." 

"  And  you  mean  to  make  me  your  tool  ?  1  will  dia 
first!" 

"  1  believe  that,"  said  Tom,  who  was  very  near  adding, 
"  that  he  should  be  sorry  to  work  with  such  tools." 

"  My  tools  are  my  lancet  and  my  drugs,"  said  he, 
quietly,  "  and  all  I  have  to  say  refers  to  them.  It  suits  r:iv 
purpose  to  become  the  principal  medical  man  in  this  neigh 
borhood  — " 

"  And  1  am  to  tout  for  introductions  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  to  be  so  very  kind  as  to  allow  me  to  finish  my 
sentence,  just  as  you  would  allow  any  other  gentleman  ;  — • 
and,  because  I  wish  for  practice,  and  patients,  and  power, 
you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  treat  me  henceforth  as  one  high 


164  THE   RECOGNITION. 

minded  man  would  treat  another,  to  whom  he  is  obliged 
For,  you  know,  John  Brig-gs,  as  well  as  I,"  said  Tom,  draw 
ing-  himself  up  to  his  full  hei.^'ht,  —  "  look  me  in  the  face,  if 
you  can,  ere  you  deny  it,  —  that  1  was,  while  you  knew  me, 
as  honorable  a  man  and  as  kind-hearted  a  man  as  you  evei 
were  ;  and  that  now  —  considering  the  circumstances  under 
which  we  meet  —  you  have  more  reason  to  trust  me,  than 
1  have,  prima  flxcie,  to  trust  you." 

Vavasour  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Good-by,  then,"  said  Tom,  drawing  aside  from  the 
step  ;  "  Mrs.  Vavasour  will  be  anxious  about  you.  And 
mind  !  With  regard  to  her  first  of  all,  sir,  and  then  with 
regard  to  other  matters  —  as  long,  and  only  as  long,  as  you 
remember  that  you  are  John  Briggs  of  Whitbury,  1  shall  be 
the  first  to  forget  it.  There  is  my  hand,  for  old  acquaint- 
ance' sake." 

Vavasour  took  the  proffered  hand  coldly,  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  wrung  it  in  silence,  and  hurried  away  home. 

"Have  I  played  my  ace  ill  after  all  ?  "  said  Tom,  sitting 
down  to  consider.  "  As  for  whether  I  should  have  played 
it  at  all,  that 's  no  business  of  mine  now.  Madam  Might- 
have-been  may  see  to  that.  But  did  I  play  ill  ?  for,  if  I 
did,  I  may  try  a  new  lead  yet.  Ought  1  to  have  twitted 
him  about  his  wife  ?  If  he  's  venomous,  it  may  only  make 
matters  worse;  and  still  worse  if  he  be  suspicious.  I  don't 
think  he  was  either  in  old  times  ;  but  vanity  will  make  a 
man  so,  and  it  may  have  made  him.  Well,  I  must  only 
ingratiate  myself  all  the  more  with  her  ;  and  find  out,  too, 
wliether  she  has  his  secret  as  well  as  I.  W^hat  I  am  most 
afraid  of  is  my  having  told  him  plainly  that  he  was  in  my 
power  ;  it 's  apt  to  make  sprats  of  his  size  flounce  desper- 
ately in  the  mere  hope  of  proving  themselves  whales  after 
all,  if  it's  only  to  their  miserable  selves.  Never  m.ind  ;  he 
can't  break  my  tackle  ;  and,  beside,  that  gripe  of  the  hand 
seemed  to  indicate  that  the  poor  wretch  was  beat,  and 
tbought  himself  let  off  easily  —  as  indeed  he  is.  We'll 
hope  so.     Now,  zoophytes,  for  another  turn  with  you  I  " 

To  tell  the  truth,  however,  Tom  is  looking  for  more  than 
zoophytes,  and  has  been  doing  so  at  every  dead  low  tide 
since  he  was  wrecked.  He  has  heard  nothing  yet  of  his 
belt.  The  notes  have  not  been  presented  at  the  London 
bank  ;  nobody  in  the  village  has  been  spending  more  money 
than  usual  ;  for  cunning  Tom  has  contrived  already  to  know 
how  many  pints  of  ale  every  man  of  whom  he  has  the  least 
doubt  has  drunk.     Perhaps,  after  all,  the  belt  may  have 


*  THE   RECOGNITION.  165 

been  torn  off  in  the  liffe-struggle  ;  it  may  have  been  for  a 
moment  in  Grace's  hands,  and  then  have  been  swept  back 
into  the  sea.  What  more  likely  ?  And  what  more  likely, 
in  that  case,  that,  sinking  by  its  weight,  it  is  wedged  away 
in  some  cranny  of  the  rocks  ?  So,  spring-tide  after  spring- 
tide Tom  searches,  and  all  the  more  carefully  because  others 
are  searching  too,  for  waifs  and  strays  from  the  wreck. 
Sad  relics  of  mortality  he  finds  at  times,  as  others  do  ;  once, 
even,  a  dressing-case,  full  of  rings,  and  pins,  and  chains, 
which  belonged,  he  fancied,  to  a  gay  young  bride  with 
whom  he  had  waltzed  many  a  time  on  deck,  as  they  slipped 
along  before  the  soft  trade-wind  ;  but  no  belt.  He  sent  the 
dressing-case  to  the  Lloyd's  underwriters,  and  searched  on  ; 
but  in  vain.  Neither  could  he  find  that  any  one  else  had 
forestalled  him  ;  and  that  very  afternoon,  sulky  and  dis- 
heartened, he  determined  to  waste  no  more  time  about  the 
matter  ;  and  strode  home,  vowing  signal  vengeance  against 
the  thief,  if  he  caught  him. 

"  And  I  will  catch  him  !  These  west-country  yokels,  to 
fancy  that  they  can  do  Tom  Thurnall !  It 's  adding  insult 
to  injury,  as  Sam  Weller's  parrot  has  it." 

Now  his  shortest  way  home  lay  across  the  shore,  and 
then  along  the  beach,  and  up  the  steps  by  the  little  water- 
fall, past  Mrs.  Harvey's  door  ;  and  at  that  door  sat  Grace, 
sewing  in  the  sun.  She  looked  up  and  bowed  as  he  passed, 
smiling  modestly,  and  little  dreaming  of  what  was  passing 
in  his  mind  ;  and  when  a  very  lovely  girl  smiled  and  bowed 
to  Tom,  he  must  needs  do  the  same  to  her ;  whereon  she 
added, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  have  you  heard  anything  of  the 
money  you  lost  ?  I  —  Ave  —  have  been  so  ashamed  to  think 
of  such  a  thing  happening  here." 

Tom's  evil  spirit  was  roused. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  of  it.  Miss  Harvey  ?  For  you 
seem  to  me  the  only  person  in  the  place  who  knows  any- 
thing about  the  matter." 

"  I,  sir  ?"  cried  Grace,  fixing  her  great  startled  eyes  full 
on  him. 

"Why,  ma'am,"  said  Tom,  with  a  courtly  smile,  "you 
may  possibly  recollect,  if  you  will  so  far  tax  your  memory, 
that  you  had  it  in  your  hands  at  least  a  moment,  when  yor. 
did  me  the  kindness  to  save  my  life  :  and,  as  you  were  kind 
enough  to  inform  me  that  I  should  recover  it  when  I  was 
worthy  of  it,  I  suppose  I  have  not  yet  risen  in  your  eyes  to 
the  reauired  state  of  conversion  and  regeneration."     And 


166  THE   RECOGNITION. 

swinginf^  impatiently  away,  he  walked  on,  really  afraid  lest 
he  should  say  something'  rude. 

Grace  half  called  after  him,  and  then,  suddenly  checking 
herself,  rushed  in  to  her  mother  with  a  wild  and  pale  face. 

"  What  is  this  ^Ir.  Thurnall  has  been  saying  to  me  about 
bis  belt  and  money  which  he  lost  ?" 

"  About  what  ?  Has  he  been  rude  to  you,  the  bad  man  ?  " 
cried  Mrs.  Harvey,  dropping-  the  pie-dish  in  some  confusion, 
and  taking  a  long  while  to  pick  up  the  pieces. 

"  About  the  belt  —  the  money  which  he  lost  1  Why  don't 
you  speak,  mother  ?  " 

"  Belt  —  money  ?  Ah,  I  recollect  now.  He  has  lost  some 
money,  he  says." 

"  Of  course  he  has." 

"How  should  you  know  anything?  1  recollect  there 
was  some  talk  of  it,  though.  But  what  matter  what  he 
says  .''  He  was  quite  passed  away,  I  '11  swear,  when  they 
carried  him  up." 

"But,  mother!  mother!  he  says  that  I  know  about  it; 
that  I  had  it  in  my  hands  !  " 

"You?  0,  the  wicked  wretch,  the  false,  ungrateful, 
slanderous  child  of  wrath,  with  adder's  poison  under  his 
lips  I  No,  my  child  I  though  we  're  poor,  we  're  honest  I 
Let  him  slander  us,  rob  us  of  our  good  name,  send  us  to 
prison,  if  he  will  —  he  cannot  rob  us  of  our  souls.  We  '11 
be  silent ;  we  '11  turn  the  other  cheek,  and  commit  our  cause 
to  One  above  who  pleads  for  the  orphan  and  the  widow 
We  will  not  strive  nor  cry,  my  child.  0,  no  !  "  And  Mrs 
Harvey  began  fussing  over  the  smashed  pie-dish. 

"  I  shall  not  strive  nor  cry,  mother,"  said  Grace,  who 
had  recovered  her  usual  calm  ;  "  but  he  must  have  some 
cause  for  these  strange  words.  Do  you  recollect  seeing  me 
with  the  belt  ?  " 

"  Belt,  what 's  a  belt?  I  know  nothing  about  belts.  I 
tell  you  he  's  a  villain,  and  a  slanderer.  0,  that  it  should 
have  come  to  this,  to  have  my  child's  fair  fame  blasted  by 
a  wretch  that  comes  nobody  knows  where  from,  and  has 
been  doing  nobody  knows  what,  for  aught  I  know  !  " 

"  Mother,  mother  !  we  know  no  harm  of  him.  If  he  is 
mistaken,  God  forgive  him." 

"  If  he  is  mistaken  ?  "  went  on  Mrs.  Harvey,  still  over  the 
pie-dish  ;  but  Grace  gave  her  no  answer.  She  was  deep 
in  thought.  She  recollected  now,  that  as  she  had  gone  up 
the  patli  from  the  cove  on  that  eventful  morning,  she  had 
seen  Willis  and  Thurnall  whispering  earnestly  together ; 


THE   RECOGNITION.  167 

and  she  recollected  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  had 
been  a  certain  sadness  and  perplexity,  almost  reserve,  about 
Willis  ever  since.  Good  heavens  !  could  he  suspect  her 
too  ?  She  would  find  out  that,  at  least ;  and  no  sooner  had 
her  mother  fussed  away,  talking-  angrily  to  herself,  into  the 
back  kitchen,  than  Grace  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and 
went  forth  to  find  the  captain. 

In  an  hour  she  returned.  Her  lips  were  firm  set,  her 
cheeks  pale,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  She  said  nothing 
to  her  mother,  who  for  her  part  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
allude  again  to  the  matter. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  child  ?  You  look  quite  poorly, 
and  your  eyes  red." 

"  The  wind  is  very  cold,  mother,"  said  she,  and  went 
into  her  room.  Her  mother  looked  sharply  after  her,  and 
muttered  to  herself 

Grace  went  in  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"  What  a  coldness  this  is  at  ray  heart !  "  she  said  aloud 
to  herself,  trying  to  smile  ;  but  she  could  not ;  and  she  sat 
on  the  bedside,  without  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
her  hands  hanging  listlessly  by  her  side,  her  head  drooping 
on  her  bosom,  till  her  mother  called  her  to  tea ;  then  she 
was  forced  to  rouse  herself,  and  went  out,  composed,  but 
utterly  wretched. 

Tom  walked  up  homeward  very  ill  at  ease.  He  had 
played,  to  use  his  nomenclature,  two  trump  cards  running  ; 
and  was  by  no  means  satisfied  that  he  had  played  them 
well.  He  had  no  right,  certainly,  to  be  satisfied  with  eitheif 
move  ;  for  both  had  been  made  in  a  somewhat  evil  spirit, 
and  certainly  for  no  very  disinterested  end. 

That  was  a  view  of  the  matter,  however,  which  never 
entered  his  mind  ;  there  was  only  that  general  dissatisfac- 
tion with  himself  which  is,  though  men  try  hard  to  deny  the 
fact,  none  other  than  the  supernatural  sting  of  conscience. 
He  tried  "  to  la}'  to  his  soul  the  flattering  unction  "  that  he 
might,  after  all,  be  of  use  to  Mrs.  Vavasour,  by  using  his 
power  over  her  husband  ;  but  he  knew  in  his  secret  heart 
that  any  move  of  his  in  that  direction  was  likely  only  to  make 
matters  worse  ;  that  to-day's  explosion  might  only  have 
sent  home  the  hapless  Vavasour  in  a  more  irritable  temper 
than  ever.  And  thinking  over  many  things,  backward  and 
forward,  he  saw  his  own  way  so  little,  that  he  actually  con- 
descended to  go  and  "pump"  Frank  Hcadley.  So  he 
termed  it ;  but,  after  all,  it  was  only  like  asking  advice  of 


168  THE    RECOGNITION. 

a  good  man,  because  he  did  Bot  feel  himself  quite  good 
enough  to  advise  himself. 

The  curate  was  preparing  to  sally  forth,  after  his  frugal 
dini.er.  The  morning  he  spent  at  the  schools,  or  in  parish 
secnlarities  ;  the  afternoon,  till  dusk,  was  devoted  to  visit- 
ing the  poor ;  the  night,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  reading  and 
sermon-writing.  Thus,  by  sitting  up  till  two  in  tlie  morn 
hig,  and  rising  again  at  six  for  his  private  devotions,  before 
walking  a  mile  and  a  half  up  to  church  for  the  morning 
service,  Frank  Ileadley  burnt  the  candle  of  life  at  both  ends 
very  effectually,  and  showed  that  he  did  so  by  his  pale 
cheeks  and  red  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Tom,  as  he  entered,  "  as  usual ;  poor  Na- 
ture is  being  robbed  and  murdered  by  rich  Grace." 

"What  do  you  mean  now  ?"  asked  Frank,  smiling,  for 
he  had  become  accustomed  enough  to  Tom's  quaint  para- 
bles, though  he  had  to  scold  him  often  enough  for  their 
irreverence. 

"  Nature  says,  '  After  dinner  sit  a  while  ; '  and  even  the 
dumb  animals  hear  her  voice,  and  lie  by  for  a  siesta  when 
their  stomachs  are  full.  Grace  says,  '  Jump  up  and  rush 
out  the  moment  you  have  swallowed  your  food  ; '  and,  if  you 
get  an  indigestion,  abuse  poor  Nature  for  it ;  and  lay  the 
blame  on  Adam's  fall." 

"  You  are  irreverent,  my  good  sir,  as  usual ;  but  you  are 
unjust  also  this  time." 

""IIow  then?" 

"  Unjust  to  Grace,  as  you  phrase  it,"  answered  Frank, 
with  a  quaint  sad  smile.  "  I  assure  you  on  my  honor,  that 
Grace  has  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  my  '  rushing  out' 
just  now,  but  simply  the  desire  to  do  my  good  works  that 
they  may  be  seen  of  men.  I  hate  going  out.  I  should  like 
to  sit  and  read  the  whole  afternoon  ;  but  I  am  afraid  lest 
the  dissenters  should  say,  '  lie  has  not  been  to  see  so-and- 
so  for  the  last  three  days  ;  '  so  off  I  go,  and  no  credit  to  me." 

Why  had  Frank  dared,  upon  a  month's  acquaintance,  to 
lay  bare  his  own  heart  thus  to  a  man  of  no  creed  at  all  ? 
Because,  I  suppose,  amid  all  differences,  he  had  found  one 
point  of  likeness  between  himself  and  Thurnall ;  he  had 
found  that  Tom  was  at  heart  a  thoroughly  genuine  man, 
sincere  and  faithful  to  his  own  scheme  of  the  universe.  How 
"    4.  _„„    through  all  his  eventful  life,  had  been  enabled  to 

♦'  Bate  not  a  jot  of  heart  or  hope. 
But  steer  right  onward," 


THE   RECOGNITION.  169 

was  a  problem  which  Frank  longed  curiously,  and  yet  fear- 
fully v.'ithal,  to  solve.  There  were  many  qualities^  in  him 
which  Frank  could  not  but  admire,  and  long  to  imitate  ; 
and,  "Whence  had  they  come?"  was  another  problem  at 
which  he  looked,  trembling  as  many  a  new  thought  crossed 
him.  lie  longed,  too,  to  learn  from  Tom  somewhat  at  l(;ast 
of  tliat  samirfaire,  that  power  of  "  becoming  all  things  to 
all  men,"  which  St.  Paul  had  ;  and  for  want  of  which  Frank 
had  failed.  He  saw,  too,  with  surprise,  that  Tom  had 
gained  in  one  month  more  real  insight  into  the  characters 
of  his  parishioners  than  he  had  done  in  twelve  ;  and,  besido 
all,  there  was  the  craving  of  the  lonely  heart  for  human  con- 
fidence and  friendship.  So  it  befell  that  Frank  spoke  out 
his  inmost  thought  that  day,  and  thought  no  shame  ;  and 
it  befell,  also,  that  Thurnall,  when  he  heard  it,  said  in  his 
heart,  "  What  a  noble,  honest  fellow  you  are,  when  you  —  " 

But  he  answered  enigmatically. 

"  0,  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  Grace  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  I  only  referred  it  to  that  source  because  I  thought 
you  would  do  so." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your  dishonesty,  then." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  my  view  of  the  case  is,  that  you  rush 
out  after  dinner  for  the  very  same  reason  that  the  Yankee 
store-keeper  does  —  from  —  you  '11  forgive  me  if  I  say  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     You  cannot  speak  too  plainly  to  me." 

"  Conceit.  The  Yankee  fancies  himself  such  an  impor- 
tant person,  that  the  commercial  world  will  stand  still  unless 
he  flies  back  to  its  help  after  ten  minutes'  gobbling,  with 
his  mouth  full  of  pork  and  pickled  peaches.  And  you  fancy 
yourself  so  important,  in  your  line,  that  the  spiritual  world 
will  stand  still  unless  you  bolt  back  to  help  it  in  like  wise. 
Substitute  a  half-cooked  mutton-chop  for  the  pork,  and  the 
cases  are  exact  parallels." 

"  Ydur  parallel  does  not  hold  good,  doctor.  The  Yankee 
goes  b.ick  to  his  store  to  earn  money  for  himself,  and  not 
to  keep  commerce  alive." 

"  While  you  go  for  utterly  disinterested  motives.     I  see  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Frank.  "  If  you  think  that  I  fancy  my- 
self a  better  man  than  the  Yankee,  you  mistake  me  ;  but  at 
least  you  will  confess  that  I  am  not  working  for  money." 

"  No  ;  you  have  j'our  notions  of  reward,  and  he  has  his. 
He   wants  to  be   paid   by  material  dollars,  payable   next 
month  ;  3'ou  by  spiritual  dollars,  payable  when  you  die.     I 
don't  see  the  great  difference." 
16 


170  THE    RECOGNITION. 

"  Only  the  slight  difference  between  what  is  material  and 
what  is  spiritual." 

"  They  seem  to  me,  from  all  I  can  hoar  in  pulpits,  to  be 
only  two  dillercnt  sorts  of  pleasant  things,  and  to  be  sought 
after,  both  aUke,  simply  because  they  are  pleasant.  Self- 
interest,  if  you  will  forgive  me,  seems  to  me  the  spring  of 
both;  only,  to  do  you  justice,  you  are  a  further-sighted  and 
more  prudent  man  than  the  Yankee  store-keeper  ;  and,  hav- 
ing more  exquisitely  developed  notions  of  wliat  your  true 
self-interest  is,  are  content  to  wait  a  little  longer  than  he." 

"You  stab  with  a  jest,  Thurnall.  You  little  know  how 
your  words  hit  home." 

"  Well,  then,  to  turn  from  a  matter  of  which  I  know 
nothing,  1  must  keep  you  in,  and  give  you  parish  businesa 
to  do  at  home.  I  am  come  to  consult  you  as  my  spirit  jal 
pastor  and  master." 

Frank  looked  a  little  astonished. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed.  I  am  not  going  to  confess  my  own 
sins  —  only  other  people's." 

"  Pra}'  don't,  then.  I  know  far  more  of  them  already 
than  I  can  cure.  I  am  worn  out  with  tlie  daily  discovery 
of  fresh  evil  wherever  I  go." 

"  Then  why  not  comfort  yourself  by  trying  to  find  a  little 
fresh  good  wherever  you  go  ?  " 

Frank  sighed. 

"  Perhaps,  though,  you  don't  care  for  any  sort  of  good 
except  your  own  sort  of  good.  You  are  fivstidious.  Well, 
you  have  your  excuses.  But  you  can  understand  a  poor 
fellow  like  me,  who  has  been  dragged  through  the  slums 
and  sewers  of  this  wicked  world  for  fifteen  years  and  more, 
being  very  well  content  with  any  sort  of  good  whicli  I  can 
light  on,  and  not  particular  as  to  either  quantity  or  quality." 

"  Pei-haps  yours  is  the  healthier  state  of  mind,  if  you  can 
only  find  the  said  good.  The  vnlturino  nose,  which  smells 
nothing  but  corruption,  is  no  credit  to  its  possessor.  And 
it  would  be  pleasant,  at  least,  to  find  good  in  every  man." 

"One  can't  do  that  in  one's  study.     Mixing  with  there 
.d  the  oidy  plan.      No  doubt  they're  inconsistent  enough 
The  more  you  see  of  them,  the  less  you  trust  them  ;  and 
yet  the  more  you  see  of  them,  the  more  you  like  them.    Can 
you  solve  that  paradox  from  your  books  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Frank.  "  I  gcnendly  have  more  thau 
one  to  think  over  when  you  go.  But,  surely,  there  are  men 
io  fallen  that  they  arc  utterly  insensible  to  good." 

"  Very  likely.    There  's  no  saying  in  tlJs  world  what  maj 


THE   RECOGNITION.  171 

not  be.  Only  1  never  saw  one.  I  '11  tell  you  a  story  ;  you 
may  apply  it  as  you  like.  When  I  was  on  the  Texan  expe- 
dition, and  raw  to  soldiering  and  camping,  we  had  to  sleep 
in  low  ground,  and  suftered  terribly  from  a  miasma.  Deadly 
cold  it  was  when  it  came  ;  and  the  man  who  once  got  chilled 
through  with  it,  just  died.  I  was  lying  on  the  bare  g'l^und 
on3  night,  and  chilly  enough  I  was, — for  I  was  short  of 
clothes,  and  had  lost  my  buflalo  robe,  —  but  fell  asleep  ; 
and,  on  waking  the  next  morning,  I  found  myself  covered 
up  in  my  comrade's  blankets,  even  to  his  coat,  while  he  was 
sitting  shivering  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  Tlie  cold  fog  had  come 
down  in  the  night,  and  the  man  had  stripped  himself,  and 
sat  all  night  with  death  staring  him  in  the  face,  to  save  my 
life.  And  all  the  reason  he  gave  was,  that  if  one  of  us  must 
die,  it  was  better  the  older  should  go  tirst,  and  not  a  young- 
ster like  me.  And,"  said  Tom,  lowering  bis-  voice,  "that 
man  was  a  murderer  !  " 

"A  murderer  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  a  drunken,  gambling,  cut-throat  rowdy  as  ever 
grew  ripe  for  the  gallows.  Now,  will  you  tell  me  that 
there  was  nothing  in  that  man  but  what  the  devil  put 
there  ?  " 

Frank  sat  meditating  a  while  on  this  strange  story,  which 
is,  moi'eover,  a  true  one  ;  and  then  looked  up  with  some- 
thing like  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  And  he  did  not  die  ?  " 

"  Not  he  !  1  saw  him  die  afterwards  —  shot  through  the 
heart,  without  time  even  to  cry  out.  But  I  have  not  for- 
gotten what  he  did  for  me  that  night ;  and  I  '11  tell  you 
what,  sir,  I  do  not  believe  that  God  has  forgotten  it  either." 

Frank  was  silent  lor  a  few  moments,  and  then  Tom 
changed  the  subject. 

"1  want  to  know  what  you  can  tell  me  about  this  Mr. 
Vavasour." 

"  Hardly  anything,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  I  was  at  his  house 
at  tea,  two  or  three  times,  when  I  first  came  ;  and  I  had 
very  agreeable  evenings,  and  talks  on  art  and  poetry ;  but 
I  believe  I  offended  him  by  hinting  that  he  ought  to  come 
to  church,  which  he  never  does,  and  since  then  our  acquaint- 
ance has  all  but  ceased.  I  suppose  you  will  say,  as  usual, 
that  I  played  my  cards  badly  there  also." 

"  Not  at  all !  "  said  Tom,  who  Avas  disposed  to  take  any 
one's  part  against  Elsley.  "  If  a  clergyman  has  not  a  right 
to  tell  a  man  that,  1  don't  see  what  right  he  has  of  any 
kind.      Only,"  added  he,   with  one  of   his  quaint    smiles, 


172  THE   RECOGNITION. 

"the  clergyman,  if  he  compels  a  man  to  deal  at  his  store 
is  bound  to  furnish  him  with  the  articles  which  he  wants." 

"Which  he  needs,  or  which  he  likes?      For  'wanting 
has  botli  those  meanings." 

"  With  something  that  he  finds  by  experience  does  hira 
gooil ;  and  so  learns  to  like  it,  because  he  knows  that  he 
needs  it,  as  my  patients  do  my  physic." 

"I  wish  my  patients  would  do  so  by  mine  ;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, half  of  them  seem  to  me  not  to  know  what  their 
disease  is,  and  the  other  half  do  not  think  they  are  diseased 
at  all." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  dryly,  "  perhaps  some  of  them  are 
more  right  than  you  fancy.  Every  man  knows  his  own 
business  best." 

"  If  it  were  so,  they  would  go  about  it  somewhat  difier- 
eutly  fx'om  what  most  of  the  poor  creatures  do." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  fancy  myself  that  not  one  of  them 
does  a  wrong  thing,  but  what  he  knows  it  to  be  wrong  just 
as  well  as  you  do,  and  is  much  more  ashamed  and  frightened 
about  it  already  than  you  can  ever  make  him  by  preaching 
at  him." 

"Do  you?" 

"  I  do.     I  judge  of  others  by  myself." 

"  Then  would  you  have  a  clergyman  never  warn  his 
people  of  their  sins  ?  " 

"  If  I  were  he,  I  'd  much  sooner  take  the  sins  for  granted, 
and  say  to  them,  '  Now,  my  friends,  I  know  you  are  all, 
ninety-nine  out  of  the  hundred  of  you,  not  such  bad  fellows 
at  bottom,  and  would  all  like  to  be  good,  if  you  only 
knew  how  ;  so  I  '11  tell  you  as  far  as  I  know,  though  I  don't 
know  much  about  the  matter.  For  tla?  truth  is,  you  must 
have  a  hundred  troubles  every  day  which  I  never  felt  in  my 
life  ;  and  it  must  be  a  very  hard  thing  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together,  and  to  get  a  little  pleasure  on  this  side  the 
grave,  without  making  blackguards  of  yourselves.  There- 
fore I  don't  pretend  to  set  myself  up  as  a  better  or  a  wiser 
man  than  you  at  all  ;  but  I  do  know  a  thing  or  two  which  I 
fancy  may  be  useful  to  you.  You  can  but  try  it.  So  come 
up,  if  you  like,  any  of  you,  and  talk  matters  over  with  me 
as  between  gentleman  and  gentleman.  I  shall  keep  your 
secret,  of  course;  and  if  you  find  I  can't  cure  your  com 
plaint,  wh}'  you  can  but  go  away  and  try  elsewhere.'  " 

"  And  so  the  doctor's  model  sermon  ends  in  proposing 
private  confession  !  " 

"Of  course      The  thing  itself  which  will  do  them  gooi, 


THE   EECOGXITION.  173 

without  the  red  rag  of  an  official  name,  which  sen  Is  them 
cackling  off  like  frightened  turkeys.  Such  private  con- 
fession as  is  going  on  between  you  and  me  now.  Here  am 
I  confessing  to  you  all  my  unorthodoxy." 

"  And  I  my  ignorance,"  said  Frank  ;  "  for  I  really  believe 
you  know  more  about  the  matter  than  I  do." 

"  Xot  at  all.  I  may  be  all  wrong.  But  the  fault  of  your 
cloth  seems  to  me  to  be  that  they  apply  their  medicines 
without  deigning,  most  of  them,  to  take  the  least  diagnosis 
of  the  case.  How  could  I  cure  a  man  without  first  examin- 
ing what  was  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  So  say  the  old  casuists,  of  wiiom  I  have  read  enough  — 
some  would   say  too  much  :  but  they  do  not  satisfy  me 
They  deal  with  actions,  and  motives,  and  so  forth  ;  but  they 
do  not  go  down  to  the  one  root  of  wrong,  which  is  the  same 
in  every  man." 

"You  are  getting  beyond  me  ;  but  why  do  you  not  apply 
a  little  of  the  worldly  wisdom  which  these  same  casuists 
taught  you  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  tried  in  past  years,  and 
found  that  the  medicine  would  not  act." 

"Humph  !  Well,  that  would  depend,  again,  on  the  pre- 
vious diagnosis  of  human  nature  being  correct ;  and  those 
old  monks,  I  should  say,  would  know  about  as  much  of 
human  nature  as  so  many  daws  in  a  steeple.  Still,  you 
would  n't  say  that  what  was  the  matter  with  old  Heale  was 
the  matter  also  with  Vavasour  ?  " 

"  I  believe  from  my  heart  that  it  is." 

"  Humph  I  Then  you  know  the  symptoms  of  his  com- 
plaint ?  " 

"  I  know  that  he  never  comes  to  church." 

"  Nothing  more  ?  I  am  really  speaking  in  confidence. 
You  surely  have  heard  of  disagreements  between  him  and 
Mrs.  Vavasour  ?  " 

"  Never,  I  assure  you  ;  you  shock  me." 

"  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  then,  that  I  said  a  word  about 
it;  but  the  whole  parish  talks  of  it,"  answered  Tom,  who 
was  surprised  at  this  fresh  proof  of  the  little  confidence 
which  Aberalva  put  in  their  parson. 

"  Ah  I  "  said  Frank,  sadly,  "  I  am  the  last  person  in  the 
parish  to  hear  any  news  ;  but  this  is  very  distressing." 

"  Very,  to   me.     My   honor,  to  tell   you  the  trutfi,  as  a 
medical  man,  is  concerned  in  the  matter  ;  for  she  is  growing 
quite  ill  from   unhappiness,   and  I  cannot  cure  her  ;  so  I 
15* 


174  THE   RECOGNITION. 

come  to  you,  as  soul-doctor,  to  do  wliat  1,  the  body-doctor 
cannot." 

Frank  sat  pondering  for  a  minute,  and  tlien  — 

"  You  set  me  on  a  task  for  which  1  am  as  little  fit  as  anj 
man,  by  your  own  showing.  What  do  I  know  of  disagree- 
ments between  man  and  wife  ?  And  one  has  a  delicacy 
about  ofi'ering  her  comfort.  She  must  bestow  her  confidence 
on  me  before  1  can  use  it ;  while  he  —  " 

"  While  he,  as  the  cause  of  the  disease,  is  what  you  ought 
to  treat ;  aud  not  her  unhappiness,  which  is  only  a  symptom 
of  it." 

"  Spoken  like  a  wise  doctor ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Thurnall,  I  have  no  influence  over  Mr.  Vavasour,  and  see 
no  means  of  getting  any.  If  he  recognized  my  authority, 
as  his  parish  priest,  then  I  should  see  my  way.  Let  him  be 
as  bad  as  he  might,  I  should  have  a  fixed  point  from  which 
to  work  ;  but  with  his  free-thinking  notions,  I  know  well  — 
one  can  judge  it  too  easily  from  his  puems  —  he  would  look 
on  me  as  a  pedant  assuming  a  spiritual  tyranny  to  which  I 
have  no  claim." 

Tom  sat  a  while  nursing  his  knee,  and  then  — 

"  If  you  saw  a  man  fallen  into  the  water,  what  do  you 
think  would  be  the  shortest  way  to  prove  to  him  that  you 
had  authority  from  Heaven  to  pull  him  out  ?  Do  you  give 
it  up  't  Pulling  him  out,  would  it  not  be,  without  more 
ado  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  happy  enough  to  pull  poor  Vavasour  out,  if 
he  would  let  me.  But,  till  he  believes  that  I  can  do  it,  how 
can  I  ever  begin  ?  " 

"  Ilow  can  you  expect  him  to  believe,  if  he  has  no 
proof?  " 

"  Tli(n-e  are  proofs  enough  in  the  Bible  and  elsewhere,  if 
he  will  but  accept  them.  If  he  refuses  to  examine  into  the 
credentials,  the  fault  is  his,  not  mine.  I  really  do  not  wish 
to  be  hard  ;  but  would  you  not  do  the  same,  if  any  one 
refused  to  employ  you,  because  he  chose  to  deny  that  you 
were  a  legally  qualified  practitioner  ?  " 

"  Not  so  liadly  put ;  but  what  should  I  do  in  that  case  ? 
Go  on  quietly  curing  his  neighbors,  till  he  began  to  alter  his 
mind  as  to  my  qualifications,  and  came  in  to  be  cured  him- 
Belf  But  here  's  this  difference  between  you  and  me.  I  am 
not  bound  to  attend  any  one  who  don't  send  fur  me  ;  while 
you  think  that  you  are,  and  carry  the  notion  a  little  too  far, 
for  I  expect  you  to  kill  yourself  by  it  some  day." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Frank,  with  something  of  that  lazy  Ox- 


THE    RECOGNITION.  175 

ford  tone,  which  is  intended  to  save  the  speaker  the  trouble 
of  giving-  his  arguments,  when  he  has  already  made  up  his 
mind,  or  thinks  that  he  has  so  done. 

"  Well,  if  I  thought  myself  bound  to  doctor  the  man 
willy-nilly,  as  you  do,  I  would  certainly  go  to  him,  and  show 
him,  at  least,  that  I  understood  his  complaint.  That  would 
be  the  first  step  towards  his  letting  me  cure  him.  How 
else  on  earth  do  you  fancy  that  Paul  cured  those  Corinthians 
about  whom  I  have  been  reading  lately  ?  " 

"  Are  you,  too,  going  to  quote  Scripture  against  me  ?  I 
am  glad  to  find  that  your  studies  extend  to  St.  Paul." 

"  To  tell  3'ou  the  truth,  your  sermon  last  Sunday  puzzled 
me,  I  could  not  comprehend  (on  your  showing)  how  Paul 
got  that  wonderful  influence  over  those  pagans  which  he 
evidently  had  ;  and  as  how  to  get  influence  is  a  very  favorite 
study  of  mine,  I  borrowed  the  book  when  I  went  home,  and 
road  for  myself;  and  the  matter  at  last  seemed  clear 
enough,  on  Paul's  own  showing." 

"1  don't  doubt  that;  but  I  suspect  your  interpretation 
of  the  fact  and  mine  would  not  agree." 

"  Mine  is  simple  enough.  He  says  that  what  proved  him 
to  be  an  apostle  was  his  power.  He  is  continually  appeal- 
ing to  his  power  ;  and  what  can  he  mean  by  that,  but  that 
he  could  do,  and  had  done,  what  he  professed  to  do  ?  He 
promised  to  make  those  poor  heathen  rascals  of  Greeks  bet- 
ter, and  wiser,  and  happier  men  ;  and  I  suppose  he  made 
them  so ;  and  then  there  was  no  doubt  of  his  commission, 
or  his  authority,  or  anything  else.  He  says  himself  he  did 
not  require  any  credentials,  for  they  were  his  credentials, 
read  and  known  of  every  one  ;  he  had  made  good  men  of 
them  out  of  bad  ones,  and  that  was  proof  enough  whose 
apostle  he  was." 

"Well,"  said  Frank,  half  sadly,   "I  might  say  a  great 
deal,  of  course,  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  but  I  pre- 
fer hearing  what  you  laymen  think  about  it  all." 
■  "  Will  you  be  angry  if  I  tell  you  honestly  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  find  me  angry  at  anything  you  said  ?  " 

"  No.  1  will  do  you  the  justice  to  say  that.  Well,  what 
we  laymen  say  is  this.  If  the  parsons  have  the  authority 
of  which  the}^  boast,  why  don't  they  use  it  ?  If  they  have 
commission  to  make  bad  people  good,  they  must  have 
power  too  ;  for  He  whose  commission  they  claim,  is  not 
likely,  I  should  suppose,  to  set  a  man  to  do  what  he  cannot 
do." 


176  THE    RECOGNITION. 

"  And  we  can  do,  if  people  would  but  submit  to  us.  H 
all  comes  round  again  to  the  same  point." 

"  So  it  docs.  How  to  get  tlieni  to  listen.  I  tried  to 
find  out  how  Paul  achieved  that  lirst  step  :  and  when  I 
looked,  he  told  me  plainly  enough.  By  becoming  all  things 
to  all  men  ;  by  showing  these  people  that  he  understood 
them,  and  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  them.  Now,  do 
you  go  and  do  likewise  by  Vavasour,  and  then  exercise  your 
authority  like  a  practical  man.  If  you  have  power  to  bind 
and  loose,  as  you  told  us  last  Sunday,  bind  that  fellow's 
ungovernable  temper,  and  loose  him  from  the  real  slavery 
which  he  is  in  to  his  miserable  conceit  and  self-indulgence  ; 
and  then,  if  he  does  not  believe  in  your  'sacerdotal  power,* 
he  is  even  a  greater  fool  than  I  take  him  for." 

"  Ilonestly,  I  will  try  ;  God  help  me  !  "  added  Frank,  in 
a  lower  voice  ;  "  but  as  for  quarrels  between  man  aiid  wife, 
as  I  told  you,  no  one  understands  them  less  than  I." 

"  Then  marry  a  wife  yourself,  and  quarrel  a  little  with 
her,  for  experiment,  and  then  you  '11  know  all  about  it." 

Frank  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Thank  you.  No  man  is  less  likely  to  try  that  expert 
ment  than  I." 

"Hum!" 

"I  have  quite  enough  as  a  bachelor  to  distract  me  from 
my  work,  without  adding  to  them  those  of  a  wife  and 
family,  and  those  little  home  lessons  in  the  frailty  of 
human  nature,  in  which  you  advise  me  to  copy  Mr. 
Vavasour." 

"  And  so,"  said  Tom,  "  having  to  doctor  human  beings, 
nineteen  twentieths  of  whom  are  married  ;  and  being  aware 
that  three  parts  of  the  miseries  of  human  life  come  either 
from  wanting  to  be  married,  or  from  married  cares  and 
troubles — you  think  that  you  will  improve  your  chance  of 
doctoring  your  flock  rightly  by  avoiding  carefully  the  least 
practical  acquaintance  with  the  chief  cause  of  their  disease. 
Philosophical  and  logical,  truly  !  " 

"  You  seem  to  have  acquired  a  little  knowledge  of  men 
and  women,  my  good  friend,  without  encumbering  yourself 
with  a  wife  and  children." 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  same  school  to  which  I 
went?"  asked  Thurnall,  with  a  look  of  such  grave  mean 
ing  that  Frank's  pure  spirit  shuddered  within  him.  "  And 
I  '11  tell  you  this  ;  whenever  I  see  a  woman  nursing  bet 
baby,  or  a  father  with  his  child  upon  his  knees,  I  say  to 
myself — they  know  more  at  this  minute,  of  human  naturfv. 


THE   RECOGNITION.  177 

R8  of  the  great  law  of  '  G^est  V amour,  V amour,  Vamoui , 
which  makes  the  world  go  round,'  than  I  am  likely  to  de- 
fer many  a  day.  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir!  luese  simple 
natural  ties,  which  are  common  to  us  and  the  dumb  animals, 
'—as  I  live,  sir,  they  are  the  divinest  things  I  see  in  the 
world  1  I  have  but  one,  and  that  is  love  to  my  poor  old 
father  ;  that 's  all  the  religion  I  have  as  yet ;  but  I  tell  you, 
it  alone  has  kept  me  from  being  a  ruffian  and  a  blackguard. 
And  I  '11  tell  you  more,"  said  Tom,  warming  ;  "of  all  dia- 
bolical dodges  for  preventing  the  parsons  from  seeing  who 
they  are,  or  what  human  beings  are,  or  what  their  work  in 
the  world  is,  or  anything  else,  the  neatest  is  that  celibacy 
of  the  clergy.  I  should  like  to  have  you  with  me  in  Span- 
ish America,  or  in  France  either,  and  see  what  you  thought 
of  it  then.  How  it  ever  came  into  mortal  brains  is  to  me 
the  puzzle.  I  've  often  fancied,  when  I  've  watched  those 
priests, —  and  very  good  fellows,  too,  some  of  them  are,  — ■ 
that  there  must  be  a  devil  after  all  abroad  in  the  world,  as 
you  say  ;  for  no  human  insanity  could  ever  have  hit  upon 
so  complete  and  'cute  a  device  for  making  parsons  do  the 
more  harm,  the  more  good  they  try  to  do.  There,  I  've 
preached  you  a  sermon,  and  made  you  angry." 

"  Not  the  least ;  but  I  must  go  now  and  see  some  sick." 

"  Well,  go,  and  prosper  ;  only  recollect  that  the  said  sick 
are  men  and  women." 

And  away  Tom  went,  thinking  to  himself:  "  AVell,  that 
is  a  noble,  straightforward,  honest  fellow,  and  will  do  yet, 
if  he  '11  only  get  a  wife.  He  's  not  one  of  those  asses  who 
have  made  up  their  minds  by  book  that  the  world  is  square, 
and  won't  believe  it  to  be  round  for  any  ocular  demonstra- 
tion. He  '11  find  out  what  shape  the  world  is  before  long, 
and  behave  as  such,  and  act  accordingly." 

Little  did  Tom  think,  as  he  went  home  that  day  in  full- 
blown satisfaction  with  his  sermon  to  Frank,  of  the  misery 
he  had  caused  and  was  going  to  cause  for  many  a  day  to 
poor  Grace  Harvey.  It  was  a  rude  shock  to  her  to  find  her- 
self thus  suspected  ;  though  perhaps  it  was  one  which  she 
needed.  She  had  never,  since  one  first  trouble  ten  years 
ago,  known  any  real  grief;  and  had  therefore  had  all  tht 
more  time  to  make  a  luxury  of  unreal  ones.  She  was  treated 
by  the  simple  folk  around  her  as  all  but  inspired  ;  and  being 
Dossessed  of  real  powers  as  miraculous  in  her  own  eyes  aa 
those  which  were  imputed  to  her  were  in  theirs  (for  what 
are  real  spiritual  experiences  but  daily  miracles  ? ),  she  was 
ust  in  that  temper  of  mind  in  which  she  requiied,  as  bal 


178  THE   RECOGNITION. 

last,  all  her  real  goodness,  lest  the  moral  balance  should 
topple  headlong  alter  the  intellectual,  and  the  downward 
course  of  vanity,  excitement,  deception,  blasphemous  as- 
sumptions be  entered  on.  Happy  lor  her  that  she  was  in 
Protestant  and  common-sense  England,  and  in  a  country 
parish  where  mesmerism  and  spirit-rapping  were  unknown. 
Had  she  been  an  American,  she  might  have  become  one  of 
the  most  lucrative  "mediums;"  had  she  been  born  in  a 
Romish  country,  she  would  have  probably  become  an  even 
more  famous  personage.  There  is  no  reason  wh}'  she  should 
not  have  equalled,  or  surpassed,  the  ecstasies  of  St.  Theresa, 
or  of  St.  Hildegardis,  or  any  other  sweet  dreamer  of  sweet 
dreams  ;  have  founded  a  new  order  of  charity,  have  enriched 
the  clergy  of  a  whole  province,  and  have  died  in  seven 
years,  maddened  by  alternate  paroxysms  of  self-conceit  and 
revulsions  of  self-abasement.  Her  own  preachers  and  class- 
leaders,  indeed  (so  do  extremes  meet),  would  not  have  been 
Borry  to  make  use  of  her  in  somewhat  the  same  manner, 
however  feebly  and  coarsely ;  but  her  innate  self-respect 
And  modesty  had  preserved  her  from  the  smires  of  such 
clumsy  poachers  ;  and  more  than  one  good-looking  young 
preacher  had  fled  desperately  from  a  station  where,  instead 
of  making  a  tool  of  Grace  Harvey,  he  could  only  madden  his 
own  foolish  heart  with  love  for  her. 

So  Grace  had  reigned  upon  her  pretty  little  throne  of  not 
unbearable  sorrows,  till  a  real  and  bitter  woe  came  ;  one 
which  could  not  be  hugged  and  cherished,  like  the  rest ;  one 
■U'liich  she  tried  to  fling  from  her,  angrily,  scornfully,  and 
found,  to  her  horror,  that,  instead  of  her  possessing  it,  it  pos- 
sessed her,  and  coiled  itself  round  her  heart,  and  would  not 
be  flung  away.  She  —  she,  of  all  beings,  to  be  suspected 
as  a  thief,  and  by  the  very  man  whose  life  she  had  saved  I 
She  was  willing  enough  to  confess  herself —  and  confessed 
herself  night  and  morning — a  miserable  sinner,  and  her 
heart  a  cage  of  unclean  birds,  deceitful,  and  desperately 
wicked  —  except  in  that.  The  conscious  innocence  flashed 
up  in  pride  and  scorn,  in  thoughts,  even  when  she  was  alone, 
in  words,  of  which  she  would  not  have  believed  hcu'sclf  capa- 
ble. \Vitli  hot  brow  and  dry  eyes  she  paced  her  little  cham- 
ber, sat  down  on  the  bed,  staring  into  vacancy,  sprang  up 
and  pac-ed  again;  but  she  went  into  no  trance  —  she  dare 
not.  The  grief  was  too  great ;  she  f(;lt  that,  if  she  once  gave 
way  enough  to  lose  her  sell-possession,  she  should  go  mad. 
And  the  first,  and  perhaps  not  the  least,  good  efiect  of  that 
fiery  trial  was,  that  it  compelled  her  to  *  stern  self-restraint, 


THE   RECOGNITION.  179 

to.whicli  her  will,  weakened  by  mental  luxuriousness,  had 
Deen  long  a  stranger. 

But  a  fiery  trial  it  was.  That  first  wild  (and  yet  not 
unnatural)  fiincy,  that  Heaven  had  given  Thurnall  to  her, 
had  deepened  day  by  day,  by  the  mere  indulgence  of  it. 
But  she  never  dreamt  of  him  as  her  husband  ;  only  as  a 
friendless  stranger  to  be  helped  and  comforted.  And  that 
he  was  worthy  of  help  ;  that  some  great  future  was  in  store 
for  him  ;  that  he  was  a  chosen  vessel  marked  out  for  glory, 
she  had  persuaded  herself  utterly  ;  and  the  persuasion  grew 
in  her  day  by  day,  as  she  heard  more  and  more  of  his  clev- 
<^rness,  honesty,  and  kindliness,  mysterious,  and,  to  her, 
h.iraculous  learning.  Therefore  she  did  not  make  haste  ; 
she  did  not  even  try  to  see  him,  or  to  speak  to  him  ;  a  civil 
bow  in  passing  was  all  that  she  took  or  gave  ;  and  she  was 
content  with  *,hat,  and  waited  till  the  time  came  when  she 
was  destined  to  do  for  him  —  what  she  knew  not;  but  it 
would  be  done  if  she  were  strong  enough.  So  she  set  her- 
self to  learn,  and  read,  and  trained  her  mind  and  temper 
more  earnestly  than  ever,  and  waited  in  patience  for  God's 
good  time.  And  now,  behold,  a  black,  unfathomable  gulf 
of  doubt  and  shame  had  opened  between  them,  perhaps  for- 
ever !  And  a  tumult  arose  in  her  soul,  which  cannot  be, 
perhaps  ought  not  to  be,  analyzed  in  woi'ds  ;  but  which 
made  }ier  know  too  well,  by  her  own  crimson  cheeks,  that 
it  was  none  other  than  human  love  strong  as  death,  and 
jealousy  cruel  as  the  grave. 

At  last,  long  and  agonizing  prayer  brought  gentler 
thoughts,  and  mere  physical  exhaustion  a  calmer  mood. 
How  wicked  she  had  been  —  how  rebellious  I  Why  not 
forgive  him,  as  One  greater  than  she  had  forgiven  ?  It 
was  ungrateful  of  him  ;  but  was  he  not  human  ?  Why 
should  she  expect  his  heart  to  be  better  than  hers  ?  Be- 
sides, he  might  have  excuses  for  his  suspicion.  He  might 
be  the  best  judge,  being  a  man,  and  such  a  clever  one  too. 
Yes ;  it  was  God's  cross,  and  she  would  bear  it ;  she 
would  try  and  forget  him.  No  ;  that  was  impossible  ;  she 
must  hear  of  liim,  if  not  see  him,  day  by  day;  besides,  was 
not  her  fate  linted  up  with  his  ?  And  yet,  shut  out  from 
him  by  that  dark  wall  of  suspicion !  It  was  v^ry  bitter. 
But  she  could  pray  for  him ;  she  would  pray  for  him  now. 
Yes  ;  it  was  God's  cross,  and  shxi  would  bear  it.  He  would 
fight  her  if  He  thought  fit ;  and  if  not,  what  matter  ?  Was 
she  not  born  to  sorrow  ?  Should  she  complain  if  another 
drop,  and  that  the  bitterest  of  all,  was  added  to  the  cup? 


180  THE    RECOGNITION. 

And  bear  her  cross  she  did,  about  with  hor,  coming  iii, 
and  going  out,  for  many  a  weary  day.  There  was  no 
cliange  in  her  hibits  or  demeanor;  she  was  never  listless 
for  a  moment  in  her  school ;  she  was  more  gay  and  amusing 
than  ever,  when  she  gathered  her  little  ones  around  her  for 
a  story  ;  but  still  there  was  the  unseen  burden,  grinding 
her  heart  slowly,  till  she  felt  as  if  every  footstep  was  stained 
with  a  drop  of  her  heart's  blood  .  .  ,  Why  not?  It  would 
be  the  sooner  over. 

Then,  at  times,  came  that  strange  woman's  pleasure  in 
martyrdom,  the  secret  pride  of  suflering  unjustl}'  ;  but  even 
that,  after  a  while,  she  cast  away  from  her,  as  a  snare,  and 
tried  to  believe  that  she  deserved  all  her  sorrow  —  deserved 
it,  that  is,  in  the  real,  honest  sense  of  the  word  ;  that  she 
had  worked  it  out,  and  earned  it,  and  brought  it  on  herself — 
how,  she  knew  not,  but  longed  and  strove  to  know.  No  ;  it 
was  no  martyrdom.  She  would  not  allow  herself  so  silly  a 
cloak  of  pride  ;  and  she  went  daily  to  her  favorite  "  Book  of 
Martyrs,"  to  contemplate  there  the  stories  of  those  who, 
really  innocent,  really  suffered  for  well  doing.  And  out  of 
that  book  she  began  to  draw  a  new  and  strange  enjoyment, 
for  she  soon  found  that  her  intense  imagination  enabled  her 
to  reenact  those  sad  and  glorious  stories  in  her  own  person  ; 
to  tremble,  agonize,  and  conquer  with  those  heroines  who 
had  been  for  years  her  highest  ideals — and  what  higher 
ones  could  she  have  ?  And  many  a  night,  after  extinguish- 
ing the  light,  and  closing  her  eyes,  she  would  lie  motion- 
less for  hours  on  her  little  bed,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  feel  with 
Perpetua  the  wild  bull's  horns,  to  hang  with  St.  Maura  on 
the  cross,  or  lie  with  Julitta  on  the  rack,  or  see  with  a  tri 
umphaiit  smile,  by  Anne  Askew's  side,  the  fire  flare  up 
around  her  at  the  Smithfield  stake,  or  to  promise,  with  dying 
Dorothea,  celestial  roses  to  the  mocking  youth,  whose  face 
too  often  took  the  form  of  Thurnall's  ;  till  every  nerve  quiv- 
ered responsive  to  her  fancy  in  agonies  of  actual  pain,  which 
died  away  at  last  into  heavy  slumber,  as  body  and  mind 
alike  gave  way  before  the  strain.  Sweet  fool  I  she  knew 
not — how  ccr.ild  she  know?  —  that  she  might  be  rearing 
in  herself  the  seeds  of  idiotcy  and  death  ;  but  who  that 
applauds  a  Rachel  or  a  Ristori,  for  being  able  to  make 
a  while  their  souls  and  their  countenances  the  homes  of  the 
darkest  passions,  can  blame  her  for  enacting  in  herself  and 
for  herself  alone,  incidents  in  which  the  highest  and  holiest 
virtue  takes  shape  in  perfect  tragedy  ? 

But  soon  another,  and  a  yet  darker  cause  of  sorrow  arose 


THE   RECOGNITION.  181 

in  her.  It  was  clear,  from  what  Willis  had  told  her,  that 
Bhe  had  held  the  lost  belt  in  her  hand.  The  question  was, 
how  had  slie  lost  it  ? 

Did  her  mother  know  anything  about  it  ?  That  question 
could  not  but  arise  in  her  mind,  though,  for  very  reverence, 
she  dared  not  put  it  to  her  mother  ;  and  with  it  arose  the 
recollection  of  her  mother's  strange  silence  about  the  matter. 
Why  had  she  put  away  the  subject,  carelessl}',  and  yet 
peevishly,  whenever  it  was  mentioned  ?     Yes,  why  ?     Did 

her  mother  know  anything  't     Was  she ?     Grace  dared 

not  pronounce  the  adjective,  even  in  thought ;  dashed  it 
awa/  a3  a  temptation  of  the  devil  ;  dashed  away,  too,  the 
thought,  which  had  forced  itself  on  her  too  often  already, 
that  her  mother  was  not  altogether  one  who  possessed  the 
single  eye  :  that,  in  spite  of  her  deep  religious  feeling,  her 
assurance  of  salvation,  her  fits  of  bitter  self-humiliation  and 
despondency,  there  was  an  inclination  to  scheming  and 
intrigue,  ambition,  covetousness  ;  that  the  secrets  which 
she  gained  as  class-leader,  too,  were  too  often  (Grace  could 
but  fear)  used  to  her  own  advantage  ;  that,  in  her  dealings, 
her  morality  was  not  above  the  average  of  little  country 
shop-keepers  ;  that  she  was  apt  to  have  two  prices  ;  to  keep 
her  books  with  unnecessary  carelessness,  when  the  person 
against  whom  the  account  stood  was  no  scholar.  Grace 
had  more  than  once  remonstrated  in  her  gentle  way  ;  and 
had  been  silenced,  rather  than  satisfied,  by  her  mother's 
common-places  as  to  the  right  of  "  making  those  who  could 
pay,  pay  for  those  who  could  not ;  "  that  "it  was  very  hard 
to  get  a  living,  and  the  Lord  knew  her  temptations,"  and 
"that  God  saw  no  sin  in  his  elect,"  and  "  Christ's  merits 
were  infinite,"  and  "  Christians  always  had  been  a  backslid- 
ing generation  ;  "  and  all  the  other  common-places  by  which 
such  people  drug  their  consciences  to  a  degree  which  is 
utterly  incredible,  except  to  those  who  have  seen  it  with 
their  own  eyes,  and  heard  it  with  their  own  ears,  from 
childhood. 

Once,  too,  in  those  very  days,  some  little  meanness  on 
her  mother's  part  brought  the  tears  into  Grace's  eyes,  and 
a  gentle  rebuke  to  her  lips  ;  but  her  mother  bore  the  inter- 
ference less  patiently  than  usual,  and  answered,  not  by  cant, 
but  by  counter-reproach.  "  Was  she  the  person  to  accuse 
a  poor  widowed  mother,  straggling  to  leave  her  child 
something  to  keep  her  out  of  the  work-house  ?  A  mother 
that  livsd  for  her,  would  die  for  her,  sell  her  soul  for  ber, 
perhaps  —  " 

16 


182  1HE   RECOGNITION. 

And  there  Mrs.  Harvey  stopped  short,  turned  pale,  and 
burst  into  such  an  aji^ony  of  tears,  that  Grace,  terrified, 
threw  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  entreated  fbrg-iveness, 
all  the  more  intensely  on  account  of  those  thoughts  within 
which  she  dared  not  reveal.  So  the  storm  passed  over. 
But  not  Grace's  sadness.  For  she  could  not  but  see,  with 
her  clear,  pure  spiritual  eye,  that  her  mother  was  just  in 
that  state  in  which  some  fearful  and  shameful  lall  is  possible, 
perhaps  wholesome.  "  She  would  sell  her  soul  for  me  ? 
What  if  she  have  sold  it,  and  stopped  short  just  now,  be- 
cause she  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  me  that  love  for  me  had 
been  the  cause  ?  0,  if  she  have  sinned  for  my  sake  I 
Wretch  that  I  am  !  Miserable  myself,  and  bring-ing  misery 
with  me  1  Why  was  I  ever  born?  Why  cannot  I  die  — 
and  the  world  be  rid  of  me  ?  " 

No,  she  would  not  believe  it.  It  was  a  wicked,  horrible 
temptation  of  the  devil.  She  would  rather  believe  that  she 
herself  had  been  the  thief,  tempted  during  her  unconscious- 
ness ;  that  she  had  hidden  it  somewhere  ;  that  she  should 
recollect,  confess,  restore  all  some  day.  She  would  carry 
it  to  him  herself,  grovel  at  his  feet,  and  entreat  forgiveness. 
"He  will  surely  forgive,  when  he  finds  that  I  was  not 
myself  when  —  that  it  was  not  altogether  my  fault  —  not 
as  if  I  had  been  waking  —  yes,  he  will  forgive!"  And 
then  on  that  thought  followed  a  dream  of  what  might  follow, 
so  wild  that  a  moment  after  she  had  hid  her  blushes  in  hti 
hands,  md  fled  to  books  to  escape  fiom  thoughts. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT   OF   AN   OLD   DEBT. 

We  must  now  return  to  Elsley,  who  had  walked  home  in 
a  state  of  mind  truly  pitiable.  He  had  been  flattering  his 
Boul  with  the  hope  that  Thurnall  did  not  know  him  ;  that 
his  beard,  and  the  change  which  years  had  made,  formed  a 
sufficient  disguise  ;  but  he  could  not  conceal  from  himself 
that  the  very  same  alterations  had  not  prevented  his  recog- 
nizing Thurnall ;  and  he  had  been  living  for  two  months  past 
in  continual  fear  that  that  would  come  which  now  had  come. 

His  rage  and  terror  knew  no  bounds.  Fancying  Thurnall 
a  merely  mean  and  self-interested  worldling,  untouched  by 
those  higher  aspirations  which  stood  to  him  in  place  of 
a  religion,  he  imagined  him  making  every  possible  use  of 
his  power,  and  longed  to  escape  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth  from  his  old  tormentor,  whom  the  very  sea  would 
not  put  out  of  the  way,  but  must  needs  cast  ashore  at  his 
very  feet,  to  plague  him  afresh. 

What  a  net  he  had  spread  around  his  own  feet,  by  one 
act  of  foolish  vanity  !  He  had  taken  his  present  name, 
merely  as  a  nom  de  guerre,  when  first  he  came  to  London 
as  a  penniless  and  friendless  scribbler.  It  would  hide  him 
from  the  ridicule  (and,  as  he  fancied,  spite)  of  Thurnall, 
whom  he  dreaded  meeting  every  time  he  walked  London 
streets,  and  who  was  for  years,  to  his  melancholic  and  too 
intense  fancy,  his  bete  noir,  his  Frankenstein's  familiar. 
Besides,  he  was  ashamed  of  the  name  of  Briggs.  It  cer- 
tainly is  not  an  euphonious  or  aristocratic  name  ;  and  "  The 
Soul's  Agonies,  by  John  Briggs,"  would  not  have  sounded 
as  well  as  "The  Soul's  Agonies,  by  Elsley  Vavasour."  Va- 
vasour was  a  very  pretty  name,  and  one  of  those  which  is 
supposed  by  novelists  and  young  ladies  to  be  aristocratic  ; 
—  why  so,  is  a  puzzle,  as  its  plain  meaning  is  a  tenant-farmer, 
and  nothing  more  or  less.  So  he  had  played  with  the  name 
till  he  became  fond  of  it,  and  considered  that  he  had  a  right 
to  it    through  seven  long  years  of  weary  struggles,   pen 

M83) 


184  THE    FIRST    INSTALMENT    OF    AN    OLD    DEBT. 

ury,  disappointment,  as  he  climbed  tlie  Parnassian  Mount, 
writing  ibr  magazines  and  newspapers,  sub-editing  thia 
periodical  and  that  ;  till  he  began  to  be  known  as  a  ready, 
graceful,  and  trustworthy  workman,  and  was  befriended  by 
one  kind-hearted  litterateur  after  another.  P''or  in  London, 
at  this  moment,  any  young  man  of  real  power  will  find 
friends  enough  and  too  man}'  among  his  fellow-book- 
wriglits,  and  is  more  likely  to  have  his  head  turned  by  flat- 
tery, than  his  heart  crushed  by  envy.  Of  course,  whatso- 
ever flattery  he  may  receive  he  is  expected  to  return  ;  and 
whatsoever  clique  he  may  be  tossed  into  on  his  debut,  he  is 
expected  to  stand  by,  and  fight  for,  against  the  universe  ; 
but  that  is  but  fair.  If  a  young  gentleman,  invited  to  enrol 
himself  in  the  Mutual-puftery  Society  which  meets  every 
Monday  and  Friday  in  Ilatchgoose  the  publisher's  drawing- 
room,  is  willing  to  pledge  himself  thereto  in  the  mystic  cup 
of  tea,  is  he  not  as  solemnly  bound  thenceforth  to  support 
those  literary  Catilines  in  their  efibrts  for  the  subversion  of 
common  sense,  good  taste,  and  established  things  in  gen- 
eral, as  if  he  had  pledged  them,  as  he  would  have  done  in 
Rome  of  old,  in  his  own  life-blood  ?  Bound  he  is,  alike  by 
honor  and  by  green  tea ;  and  it  will  be  better  for  him  to 
fulfil  his  bond.  For,  if  association  is  the  cardinal  principle 
of  the  age,  will  it  not  work  as  well  in  book-making  as  in 
clothes-making'/  And  shall  not  the  motto  of  the  poet  (who 
will  also  do  a  little  reviewing  on  the  sly)  be  henceforth  that 
which  shines  triumphant  over  all  the  world,  on  many  a 
valiant  Scotchman's  shield,  — 

••  Caw  me,  and  I  '11  caw  thee  "  7 

But,  to  do  John  Briggs  justice,  he  kept  his  hands,  and 
his  heart  also,  cleaner  than  most  men  do,  during  this  stage 
of  his  career.  After  the  first  excitement  of  novelt}',  and  of 
mixing  with  people  who  could  really  talk  and  think,  and 
who  freel}'  spoke  out  whatever  was  in  them,  right  or  wrong, 
in  language  which  nt  least  sounded  grand  and  deep,  he 
began  to  find  in  the  literary  world  about  the  same  satisfac- 
tion for  his  inner  life  which  he  would  have  found  in  the  sport* 
ing  world,  or  the  commercial  world,  or  the  religious  world, 
or  the  fashionable  world,  or  any  other  world,  and  to  suspect 
strongly  that  wheresoever  a  world  is,  the  flesh  and  the  devil 
are  not  very  far  off.  Tired  of  talking  when  he  wanted  to 
think,  of  asserting  when  he  wanted  to  discover,  and  of 
hearing  his  neighbors  do  the  same  ;  tired  of  little  rneau 


THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT   OF   AN   OLD   DEBT.  185 

nesses,  envying-s,  intrigues,  jobberies  (for  the  literary 
v/orld,  too,  has  its  jobs),  he  had  been  for  some  time  with- 
drawing himself  from  the  Ilatchgoose  soirees  into  his  own 
thoughts,  when  his  "Soul's  Agonies"  appeared,  and  he 
found  himself,  if  not  a  lion,  at  least  a  lion's  cub. 

There  is  a  house  or  two  in  town  where  you  may  meet, 
on  certain  evenings,  everybody  ;  where  duchesses  and  un- 
fledged poets,  bishops  and  red  republican  refugees,  fox- 
hunting noblemen  and  briefless  barristers  who  have  taken 
to  politics,  are  jumbled  together  for  a  couple  of  hours,  to 
make  what  they  can  out  of  each  other,  to  the  exceeding 
benefit  of  them  all.  For  each  and  every  one  of  them  finds 
his  neighbor  a  pleasanter  person  than  he  expected  ;  and 
none  need  leave  those  rooms  without  knowing  something 
more  than  he  did  when  he  came  in,  and  taking  an  interest 
in  some  human  being  who  may  need  that  interest.  To  one 
of  these  houses  —  no  matter  which  —  Elsley  was  invited  on 
the  strength  of  the  "  Soul's  Agonies  ;  "  found  himself,  for 
the  first  time,  face  to  face  with  high-bred  Englishwomen  ; 
and  fancied  (small  blame  to  him)  that  he  was  come  to  the 
mountains  of  the  Peris,  and  to  fairy-land  itself  He  had 
been  flattered  already  ;  but  never  with  such  grace,  such 
sympathy,  or  such  seeming  understanding ;  for  there  are 
few  high-bred  women  who  cannot  seem  to  understand,  and 
delude  a  hapless  genius  into  a  belief  in  their  own  surpass- 
ing brilliance  and  penetration,  while  they  are  cunningly 
retailing  again  to  him  the  thoughts  which  they  have  caught 
up  from  the  man  to  whom  they  spoke  last ;  perhaps  (for 
this  is  the  very  triumph  of  their  art)  from  the  very  man  to 
whom  they  are  speaking.  Small  blame  to  bashful,  clumsy 
John  Briggs,  if  he  did  not  know  his  own  children,  and 
could  not  recognize  his  own  stammered  and  fragmentary 
fancies,  when  they  were  reechoed  to  him  the  next  minute, 
in  the  prettiest  shape,  and  with  the  most  delicate  articula- 
tion, from  lips  which  (like  those  in  the  fairy  tale)  nevei 
opened  without  dropping  pearls  and  diamonds. 

0,  what  a  contrast,  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  whose  sense  of 
beauty  and  grace,  whether  physical  or  intellectual,  was 
true  and  deep,  to  that  ghastly  ring  of  prophetesses  in  the 
Hatchgoose  drawing-room  ;  strong-minded  and  emancipated 
women,  who  prided  themselves  on  having  cast  oft'  conven- 
tionalities, and  on  being  rude,  and  awkward,  and  dogmatic, 
and  irreverent,  and  sometimes  slightly  improper;  women 
who  had  missions  to  mend  everything  in  heaven  and  earth 
except  themselves  ;  who  had  quarrelled  with  their  husbands, 
16* 


186  THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT   OP   AN   OLD   DEBT. 

and  had  therefore  felt  a  mission  to  assert  woman's  rig-hts 
and  reform  marriage  in  g-eneral ;  or  who  had  never  boon 
able  to  g()t  married  at  ail,  and  therefore  were  especially 
competent  to  proinulgate  a  model  method  of  educating  the 
children  whom  they  never  had  had  ;  women  who  wrote  poetry 
alxMit  Lady  Blanches  whom  they  never  had  met,  and  novels 
about  male  and  female  blackguards  whom  (one  liopes)  they 
never  had  met,  or  about  whom  (if  they  had)  decent  women 
would  have  held  their  peace  ;  and  every  one  of  whom  had, 
in  obedience  to  Emerson,  "followed  her  impulses,"  and 
despised  fashion,  and  was,  accordingly,  clothed  and  bediz- 
ened as  was  right  in  the  sight  of  her  own  eyes,  and  prob- 
ably in  those  of  no  one  else. 

No  wonder  that  Elsley,  ere  long,  began  drawing  compar 
isons,  and  using  his  wit  upon  ancient  patronesses  —  of 
course  behind  their  backs ;  likening  them  to  idols  fresh 
from  the  car  of  Juggernaut,  or  from  the  stern  of  a  South 
Sea  canoe;  or,  most  of  all,  to  that  famous  wooden  image 
of  Freya,  which  once  leaped  lumbering  forth  from  her  bul- 
lock-cart, creaking  and  rattling  iu  every  oaken  joint,  to 
belabor  the  too  daring  Viking  who  was  flirting  with  her 
priestess.  Even  so,  whispered  Elsley,  did  those  brains  and 
tongues  creak  and  rattle,  lumbering,  before  the  blasts  of 
Pythonic  inspiration  ;  and  so,  he  verily  believed,  would  the 
awkward  arms  and  legs  have  done  likewise,  if  one  of  the 
Pythonesses  had  ever  so  far  degraded  herself  as  to  dance. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  those  gifted  dames  had  soon  to 
complain  of  Elsley  Vavasour  as  a  traitor  to  the  cause  of 
progress  and  civilization  ;  a  renegade  who  had  fled  to  the 
camp  of  aristocracy,  flunkeydom,  obscurantism,  frivolity, 
and  dissipation  ;  though  there  was  not  one  of  them  but 
would  have  given  an  eye  —  perhaps  no  great  loss  to  the 
aggregate  loveliness  of  the  universe  —  for  one  of  his  invita- 
tions to  999  Cavendish-street  south-east,  with  the  chance 
of  being  presented  to  the  Duchess  of  Lyonesse. 

To  do  Elsley  justice,  one  reason  why  he  liked  his  new 
acquaintances  so  well  was  that  they  liked  him.  lie  be- 
haved well  himself,  and  therefore  people  behaved  well  to 
him.  He  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  very  handsome  fellow  in 
his  way ;  therefore  it  was  easy  to  him,  as  it  is  to  all  phys- 
ically beautiful  persons,  to  acquire  a  graceful  manner. 
Moreover,  he  had  steeped  his  whole  soul  in  old  poetry,  and 
especially  in  Spenser's  Faery  Queen.  Good  for  him,  had 
he  followed  every  lesson  which  he  might  have  learned  out 
of  that  most  noble  of  English  books  ;  but  one  lesson  at  least 


THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT    OF    AN    OLD    DEBT.  187 

he  learned  from  it,  and  that  was,  to  be  chivalrous,  tender, 
and  courteous,  to  all  women,  however  old  or  ugly,  sim- 
ply because  they  were  women.  The  Hatchgoose  Python- 
esses did  not  wish  to  be  women,  but  very  bad  imitations  of 
men  ;  and,  therefore,  he  considered  himself  absolved  from 
all  knightly  duties  toward  them  ;  but  toward  these  Peris  of 
the  west,  and  to  the  dowagers  who  had  been  Peris  in  their 
time,  what  adoration  could  be  too  great  ?  So  he  bowed 
down  and  worshipped  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  was  quite 
rigl  t  in  so  doing.  Moreover,  he  had  the  good  sense  to  dis- 
cover that,  though  the  young  Peris  were  the  prettiest  to 
look  at,  the  elder  Peris  were  the  better  company  ;  and  that 
it  is,  in  general,  from  married  women  that  a  poet  or  any 
one  else  will  ever  learn  what  woman's  heart  is  like.  And 
BO  well  did  he  carry  out  his  creed,  that,  before  his  first 
summer  was  over,  he  had  quite  captivated  the  heart  of  old 
Lady  Knockdown,  aunt  to  Lucia  St.  Just,  and  wife  to 
Lucia's  guardian  ;  a  charming  old  Irish  woman,  who  aflFected 
a  pretty  brogue,  perhaps  for  the  same  reason  that  she  wore 
a  wig,  and  who  had  been,  in  her  day,  a  beauty  and  a  blue, 
a  friend  of  the  Miss  Berrj'^s,  and  Tommy  Moore,  and  Grat- 
tan,  and  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and  Dan  O'Gonnell,  and 
all  other  lions  and  lionesses  which  had  roared  for  the  last 
sixty  years  about  the  Emerald  Isle.  There  was  no  one 
whom  she  did  not  know,  and  nothing  she  could  not  talk 
about.  Married  up,  when  a  girl,  to  a  man  for  whom  she 
did  not  care,  and  having  no  children,  she  had  indemnified 
herself  by  many  flirtations,  and  the  writing  of  two  or  three 
novels,  in  which  she  penned  on  paper  the  superfluous  feeling 
which  had  no  vent  in  real  life.  She  had  deserted,  as  she 
grew  old,  the  novel  for  unfulfilled  prophecy  ;  and  was  a 
distinguished  leader  in  a  distinguished  religious  coterie  ; 
but  she  still  prided  herself  upon  having  a  green  head  upon 
gray  shoulders  ;  and  not  without  reason ;  for,  imderneath 
all  the  worldliness  and  intrigue,^ and  petty  affectation  of 
girlishness,  which  she  contrived  to  jumble  in  with  her  re- 
.igiosity,  beat  a  young  and  kindly  heart.  So  she  was 
charmed  with  Mr.  Vavasour's  manners,  and  commended 
them  much  to  Lucia,  who,  a  shrinking  girl  of  seventeen, 
was  peeping  at  her  first  season  from  under  Lady  Knock- 
down's sheltering  wing. 

"Me  dear,  let  Mr.  Vavasour  be  who  he  will,  he  has  not 
only  the  intellect  of  a  true  genius,  but  what  is  a  great  dea! 
better  for  practical  purposes  ;  that  is,  the  manners  of  one 
Give  me  the  man  who  will  let  a  woman  of  our  rank  say  what 


188  THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT    OF   ^N   OLD   biteT. 

we  like  to  him,  without  supposing  that  he  may  say  what  hfl 
Hkes  in  return  ;  and  considers  one's  familiarity  as  an  honor, 
and  not  as  an  excuse  for  taking  liberties.  A  most  agree- 
able contrast,  indeed,  to  the  young  men  of  the  present  day, 
who  come  in  their  shooting-jackets,  and  talk  slang  to  their 
partners,  —  though,  really,  the  girls  are  just  as  bad,  —  and 
stand  with  their  backs  to  the  lire,  and  smell  of  smoke,  and 
go  to  sleep  after  dinner,  and  pay  no  respect  to  old  age,  nor 
tt)  youth  either,  I  think.  'Pon  me  word,  Lucia,  the  answers 
I  've  heard  young  gentlemen  make  to  young  ladies,  this 
very  season,  —  they  'd  have  been  called  out  the  next  morn- 
ing in  my  time,  me  dear.  As  for  the  age  of  chivalry, 
nobody  expects  that  to  be  restored  ;  but,  really,  one  miglit 
have  been  spared  the  substitute  for  it  which  wo  had  when  I 
was  young,  in  the  grand  air  of  the  old  school.  It  was  a 
'  sham,'  I  dare  sa}^  as  they  call  everything  now-a-days  ; 
but,  really,  me  dear,  a  pleasant  sham  is  better  to  live  witii 
than  an  unpleasant  reality,  especially  when  it  smells  of 
cigars." 

So  it  befell  that  Elsley  Vavasour  was  asked  to  Lady 
Knockdown's,  and  that  there  he  fell  in  love  with  Lucia,  and 
Lucia  fell  in  love  with  him. 

The  next  winter  old  Lord  Knockdown,  who  had  been 
decrepit  for  some  years  past,  died  ;  and  his  widow,  whose 
income  was  under  five  hundred  a  year,  —  for  the  estates 
were  entailed,  and  mortgaged,  and  everything  else  which 
can  happen  to  an  Irish  property, — came  to  live  with  her 
nephew.  Lord  Scoutbush,  in  Eaton  Square,  and  take  such 
care  as  she  could  of  Lucia  and  Valencia. 

So,  after  a  dreary  autumn  and  winter  of  parting  and 
silence,  Elsley  found  himself  the  next  season  invited  to 
PJaton  Square  ;  there  the  mischief,  if  mischief  it  was,  was 
done  ;  and  Elslej'  and  Lucia  started  in  life  upon  two  h>in- 
dred  a  year.  lie  had  inherited  some  fifty  of  his  own  ;  slie 
had  about  a  hundred  and  fifty,  —  which, indeed,  was  not  yet 
her  own  by  right,  but  little  Scoutbush  (who  was  her  sole 
surviving  guardian)  behaved,  on  the  whole,  very  well  for 
a  young  gentleman  of  twenty-two,  in  a  state  of  fury  and 
ast(mishment.  The  old  lord  had,  wisely  enough,  settled 
in  his  will  that  Lucia  was  to  enjoy  the  interest  of  her  for- 
tune from  the  time  that  she  came  out,  provided  she  did  not 
marry  without  her  guardian's  leave  ;  and  Scoutbush,  to 
avoid  esclandre  and  misery,  thought  it  as  well  to  waive  the 
proviso,  and  paid  her  her  dividends  as  usual. 

But  how  had  she  contrived  to  marry  at  all  with(Mit  hia 


THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT   OP   AN   OLD    DEBT.  189 

leave  ?  That  is  an  ugly  question.  I  will  not  say  that  she 
had  told  a  falsehood,  or  that  Elsley  had  forsworn  himself 
when  he  g'ot  the  license  ;  but  certainly  both  of  them  were 
guilty  of  something-  very  like  a  white  lie,  when  they  declared 
that  Lucia  had  the  consent  of  her  sole  surviving-  guardian, 
on  the  strength  of  an  half-angry,  half-jesting  expression  of 
Scoulbush's,  that  she  might  marry  whom  she  chose,  pro- 
vided she  did  not  plague  him.  In  the  first  triumph  of  suc- 
cess and  intoxication  of  wedded  bliss,  Lucia  had  written 
him  a  saucy  letter,  reminding  him  of  his  permission,  and 
saying  that  she  had  taken  him  at  his  word  :  but  her  con- 
science smote  her,  ar.d  Elsley's  smote  him  likewise,  and 
smote  him  all  the  more  because  he  had  been  married  under 
a  false  name,  a  fact  which  might  have  ugly  consequences 
in  law  which  he  did  not  like  to  contemplate.  To  do  him 
justice,  he  had  been,  half-a-dozen  times  during  his  court- 
ship, on  the  point  of  telling  Lucia  his  real  name  and  his- 
tory. Happy  for  him  had  he  done  so,  whatever  might  have 
been  the  consequences.  But  he  wanted  moral  courage  ;  the 
hideous  sound  of  Briggs  had  become  horrible  to  him  ;  and 
once  his  foolish  heart  was  frightened  away  from  honesty, 
just  as  honesty  was  on  the  point  of  conquering,  by  old 
Lady  Knockdown's  saying  that  she  could  never  have  mar- 
ried a  man  with  an  ugly  name,  or  let  Lucia  marry  one. 

"  Conceive  becoming  Mrs.  Natty  Bumppo,  me  dear,  even 
for  twenty  thousand  a  year.  If  you  could  summon  up 
courage  to  do  the  deed,  I  could  n't  summon  up  courage  to 
continue  my  correspondence  with  ye." 

Elsley  knew  that- that  was  a  lie  ;  that  the  old  lady  would 
have  let  her  marry  the  most  triumphant  snob  in  England, 
if  he  had  half  that  income  ;  but,  unfortunately,  Lucia  capped 
her  aunt's  nonsense  with  "  There  is  no  fear  of  my  ever  mar- 
rying- any  one  who  has  not  a  graceful  name,"  and  a  look  at 
Vavasour,  which  said,  "  And  you  have  one,  and  therefore 
I  —  "  For  the  matter  had  then  been  settled  between  them. 
This  was  too  much  for  his  vanity,  and  too  much,  also,  for 
his  fears  of  losing  Lucia  by  confessing  the  truth.  So  Elsley 
went  on,  ashamed  of  his  real  name,  ashamed  of  having  con- 
cealed it,  ashamed  of  being  afraid  that  it  woidd  be  discov- 
ered,—  in  a  triple  complication  of  shame,  which  made  him 
gradually,  as  it  makes  every  man,  moody,  suspicious,  apt 
to  take  offence  where  none  is  meant.  Besides,  they  were 
very  poor.  He,  though  neither  extravagant  nor  profligate, 
was,  like  most  literary  men  who  are  accustomed  to  live  from 
aand  to  mouth,  careless,  self-indulgent,  unmethodical      She 


190  THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT   OF   AN   OLD    DEBT. 

knew  as  much  of  housekeeping  as  the  Queen  of  Oude  does  j 
ami  her  charming  little  dreams  of  shopping  for  herself  were 
rudely  enough  broken,  ere  the  first  week  was  out,  by  the 
horrified  looks  of  Clara,  when  she  returned  from  her  firsi 
morning's  marketing  for  the  weekly  consumption,  with 
nothing  but  a  woodcock,  some  truffles,  and  a  bunch  of 
celery.  Then  the  landlady  of  the  lodgings  robbed  her,  even 
under  the  nose  of  the  faithful  Clara,  who  knew  as  little 
about  housekeeping  as  her  mistress  ;  and  Clara,  faithful  as 
she  was,  repaid  herself  by  grumbling  and  taking  liberties 
for  being  degraded  from  the  luxurious  post  of  lady's  maid 
to  that  of  servant  of  all  work,  with  a  landlady  and  "  mar- 
chioness "  to  wrestle  with  all  day  long.  Then,  what  with 
imprudence  and  anxiety,  Lucia  of  course  lost  her  first  child  ; 
and  after  that  came  months  of  illness,  during  which  Elsley 
tended  her,  it  must  be  said  for  him,  as  lovingly  as  a  mother  ; 
and  perhaps  they  were  both  really  happier  during  tliat  time 
of  sorrow  than  they  had  been  in  all  the  delirious  bliss  of  the 
honeymoon. 

Valencia  meanwhile  defied  old  Lady  Knockdown  (whose 
horror  and  wrath  knew  no  bounds),  and  walked  off  one 
morning  with  her  maid  to  see  her  prodigal  sister,  —  a  visit 
which  not  only  brought  comfort  to  the  weary  heart,  but 
important  practical  benefits.  For,  going  home,  she  seized 
upon  Scoutbush,  and  so  moved  his  heart  with  pathetic  pic- 
tures of  Lucia's  unheard-of  penury  and  misery,  that  his 
heart  was  softened  ;  and,  though  he  absolutely  refused  to 
call  on  Vavasour,  he  made  him  an  offer,  through  Lucia,  of 
Penal va  Court  for  the  time  being  ;  and  thither  they  went  — 
perhaps  the  best  thing  they  could  have  done. 

There,  of  course,  they  were  somewhat  more  comfortable. 
A  very  cheap  countr}',  a  comfortable  house  rent  free,  and  a 
lovely  neighborhood,  were  a  pleasant  change,  after  dear 
London  lodgings  ;  but  it  is  a  question  whether  the  change 
made  Elsley  a  better  man. 

In  the  first  place,  he  became  a  more  idle  man.  The  rich, 
enervating  climate  began  to  tell  upon  his  mind,  as  it  di(} 
upon  Lucia's  health.  He  missed  that  perpetual  spur  of 
nervous  excitement,  change  of  society,  influx  of  ever-fresh 
^jbjects,  whicli  makes  London,  after  all,  the  best  place  in 
the  world  for  hard  working  ;  and  which  makes  even  a  walk 
along  the  streets  an  intellectual  tonic.  In  the  soft  and 
luxurious  West  Country,  Nature  invited  him  to  look  at  her, 
and  dream  ;  and  dream  he  did,  more  and  more,  day  by  day. 
He  was  tired,  too,  — as  who  would  not  be  ?  —  of  the  drudg- 


THE    FIRST   INSTALMENT   OF   AN   OLD   DEBT.  191 

cry  of  writing  for  his  daily  bread  ;  and,  relieved  from  the 
importunities  of  publishers  and  printers'  devils,  he  sent  up 
fewer  and  fewer  contributions  to  the  magazines.  He  would 
keep  his  energies  for  a  great  work  ;  poetry  was,  after  all, 
his  forte  ;  he  would  not  fritter  himself  away  on  prose  and 
periodicals,  but  would  win  for  himself,  &c.  &c.  If  he  made 
a  mistake,  it  was,  at  least,  a  pardonable  one. 

But  Elsley  became  not  only  a  more  idle,  but  a  more  morcse 
man.  He  began  to  feel  the  evils  of  solitude.  There  was  no 
one  near  with  whom  he  could  hold  rational  converse,  save  au 
antiquarian  parson  or  two  ;  and  parsons  were  not  to  his  taste. 
So,  never  measuring  his  wits  against  those  of  his  peers, 
and  despising  the  few  men  whom  he  met  as  inferior  to  him- 
self, he  grew  more  and  more  wrapt  up  in  his  own  thoughts, 
and  his  own  tastes.  His  own  poems,  even  to  the  slightest 
turn  of  expression,  became  more  and  more  important  to 
him.  He  grew  more  jealous  of  criticism,  more  confident 
in  his  own  little  theories  about  this  and  that,  more  careless 
of  the  opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  and,  as  a  certain  conse- 
quence, more  unable  to  bear  the  little  crosses  and  contra- 
dictions of  daily  life  ;  and  as  Lucia,  having  brought  one  and 
another  child  safely  into  the  world,  settled  down  into  mother- 
hood, he  became  less  and  less  attentive  to  her,  and  more 
and  more  attentive  to  that  self  which  was  fast  becoming  the 
centre  of  his  universe. 

True,  there  were  excuses  for  him  ;  for  whom  are  there 
none  ?  He  was  poor  and  struggling  ;  and  it  is  much  more 
difficult  (as  Becky  Sharp,  I  think,  pathetically  observes)  to 
be  good  when  one  is  poor  than  when  one  is  rich.  It  is  (and 
all  rich  people  should  consider  the  fact)  much  more  easy, 
if  not  to  go  to  heaven,  at  least  to  think  one  is  going  thither, 
on  three  thousand  a  year,  than  on  three  hundred.  Not  only 
is  respectability  more  easy,  —  as  is  proved  by  the  broad  fact 
that  it  is  the  poor  people  who  fill  the  jails,  and  not  the  rich 
ones,  —  but  virtue,  and  religion  —  of  the  popular  sort.  It  is, 
undeniably,  more  easy  to  be  resigned  to  the  will  of  Heaven, 
when  that  will  seems  tending  just  as  we  would  have  it ; 
much  more  easy  to  have  faith  in  the  goodness  of  Providence, 
when  that  goodness  seems  safe  in  one's  pocket  in  the  form 
of  bank  notes  ;  and  to  believe  that  one's  children  are  under 
the  protection  of  Omnipotence,  when  one  can  hire  for  them 
in  half  an  hour  the  best  medical  advice  in  London.  One 
need  only  look  into  one's  own  heart  to  understand  the  dis- 
ciples' astonishment  at  the  news,  that  "  How  hardly  shall 
they  that  have  riches  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heas^en  I  " 


192  THE    FIRST    INSTALMENT   OF    AN    OLD   DEBT. 

"  Who  then  can  be  saved  ?  "  asked  they,  being  poor  men^ 
accustomed  to  see  the  wealthy  Pharisees  in  possession  of 
"  tlie  highest  religious  privileges,  and  means  of  grace.' 
Who,  indeed,  if  not  the  rich  ?  If  the  noblemen,  and  the 
oankers,  and  the  dowagers,  and  the  young  ladies  who  go  to 
church  and  read  good  books,  and  have  been  supplied  from 
youth  with  the  very  best  religious  articles  which  money  can 
procure,  and  have  time  for  all  manner  of  good  works,  and 
give  their  hundreds  to  charities,  and  head  reformatory  move- 
ments, and  build  churches,  and  work  altar-cloths,  and  can 
taste  all  the  preachers  and  father-confessors  round  London, 
one  after  another,  as  you  would  taste  wines,  till  they  find 
the  spiritual  panacea  which  exactly  suits  their  complaint  — 
if  they  are  not  sure  of  salvation,  who  can  be  saved  ? 

Without  further  comment,  the  fact  is  left  for  the  considera- 
tion of  all  readers  ;  only  let  them  not  be  too  hard  \;pon  Els- 
ley  and  Lucia,  if,  finding  themselves  soni'Himes  literally  at 
their  wits'  end,  they  went  beyond  their  p^or  wits  into  the 
region  where  foolish  things  are  said  and  done. 

Moreover,  Elsley's  ill-temper  (as  well  a?  Lucia's}  had  its 
excuses  in  physical  ill-health.  Poor  fellow  !  Long  years 
of  sedentary  work  had  begun  to  tell  upon  him  ;  and  while 
Tom  Thurnall's  chest,  under  the  influence  of  hard  work  and 
oxygen,  measured  round  perhaps  six  inch'^s  more  than  it 
had  done  sixteen  years  ago,  Elsley's,  thanks  to  stooping  and 
carbonic  acid,  measured  six  inches  less.  Short  breath,  lassi- 
tude, loss  of  appetite,  heartburn,  and  all  that  fair  company 
of  miseries  which  Mr.  Cockle  and  his  Anti-Bilious  Pills  pro- 
fess to  cure,  are  no  cheering  bosom  friends  ;  but  when  a 
man's  breast-bone  is  gradually  growing  into  his  stomach, 
they  will  make  their  appearance  ;  and  small  blame  to  him 
whose  temper  suffers  from  their  gentle  hints  that  he  has  a 
mortal  body  as  well  as  an  immortal  soul. 

But  most  fretting  of  all  was  the  discovery  that  Lucia  knew, 
if  not  all  about  his  original  name,  still  enough  to  keep  him 
in  dread  lest  she  should  learn  more. 

It  was  now  twelve  months  and  more  that  this  new  terror 
iiad  leapt  up  and  stared  him  in  his  face.  lie  had  left  a  let- 
ter about,  — a  thing  which  he  was  apt  to  do,  —  in  which  the 
Whitbury  lawyer  made  some  allusions  to  his  little  property  • 
and  he  was  sure  that  Lucia  had  seen  it.  The  hated  name 
of  Briggs  certainly  she  had  not  seen,  for  Elsley  had  torn  il 
out  the  moment  he  opened  the  letter ;  but  she  had  seen 
enough,  as  he  soon  fouiul,  to  bo  certain  that  he  had,  at  some 
time  or  other,  passed  under  a  dilferent  name. 


THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT    OF   AN   OLD   DEBl.  193 

If  Lucia  had  been  a  more  thoughtful  or  high-minded 
woman,  she  would  have  gone  straight  to  her  husband,  and 
quietly  and  lovingly  asked  him  to  teH  her  all  :  but,  in  her 
left-handed,  Irish  fashion,  she  kept  the  secret  to  herself,  and 
thought  it  a  very  good  joke  to  have  him  in  her  power,  and 
to  be  able  to  torment  him  about  that  letter  when  he  got  out 
of  temper.  It  never  occurred,  however,  to  her,  tliat  his 
present  name  was  the  feigned  one.  She  fancied  that  he 
had,  in  some  youthful  escapade,  assumed  the  name  to  which 
the  lawyer  alluded.  So,  the  next  time  he  was  cross,  she 
tried  laughing!}'  the  effect  of  her  newly-discovered  spell, 
and  was  horror-struck  at  the  storm  which  she  evoked.  In 
a  voice  of  thunder,  Elsley  commanded  her  never  to  mention 
the  subject  again  ;  and  showed  such  signs  of  terror  and  re- 
morse, that  she  obeyed  him  from  that  day  forth,  except 
when  now  and  then  she  lost  her  temper  as  completely,  too, 
as  he.  Little  she  thought,  in  her  heedlessness,  what  a  dark 
cloud  of  fear  and  suspicion,  ever  deepening  and  spreading, 
she  had  put  between  his  heart  and  hers. 

But  if  Elsley  had  dreaded  her  knowledge  of  his  story,  he 
dreaded  ten  times  more  Tom's  knowledge  of  it.  What  if 
Thurnall  should  tell  Lucia  ?  What  if  Lucia  should  make  a 
confidant  of  Thurnall  ?  Women  told  their  doctors  every- 
thing  ;  and  Lucia,  he  knew  too  well,  had  cause  to  complain 
of  him.  Perhaps,  thought  he,  maddened  into  wild  suspicion 
by  the  sense  of  his  own  wrong-doing,  she  might  complain 
of  him  ;  she  might  combine  with  Thurnall  against  him  —  for 
what  purposes  he  knew  not ;  but  the  wildest  imaginations 
flashed  across  him,  as  he  hurried  desperately  home,  intend- 
ing, as  soon  as  he  got  there,  to  forbid  Lucia's  ever  calling 
in  his  dreaded  enemy.  No,  Thurnall  should  never  cross  his 
door  again  !  On  that  one  point  he  was  determined,  but  on 
nothing  else. 

However,  his  intention  was  never  fulfilled.  For  long 
before  he  reached  home  he  began  to  feel  himself  thoroughly 
ill.  His  was  a  temperament  upon  which  mental  anxiety  acts 
rapidly  and  severely  ;  and  the  burning  sun,  and  his  rapid 
walk,  combined  with  rage  and  terror  to  give  him  such  a 
"  turn  "  that,  as  he  hurried  down  the  lane,  he  found  himself 
reeling  like  a  druidten  man.  He  had  just  time  to  hurry 
through  the  garden,  and  into  his  study,  when  pulse  and 
sense  failed  him,  and  he  rolled  over  on  the  sofa  in  a  dead 
faint. 

Lucia  had  seen  him  come  in,  and  heard  him  fall,  and 
rushed  in.     The  poor  little  thing  was  at  her  wits'  end,  and 

n 


19^  THE    FIRST    INSTALMENT    OF    AN    OLD    DEBT. 

thoug-lit  that  ho  had  liad  notliing  less  than  a  cowp  ^esofeiY. 
And  when  ho  rocov(;red  from  his  faintuess,  ho  bog-aii  to  be  so 
horribly  ill  that  Clara,  who  had  been  called  in  to  help,  had 
some  grounds  lor  the  degrading  hypothesis  (for  which 
Lucia  all  but  boxed  her  ears)  that  "  Master  had  got  away 
into  the  wouds,  and  gone  eating  toadstools,  or  some  such 
pois(nious  stuff;  "  for  he  lay  a  full  half-hour  on  the  sofa, 
death-cold,  and  almost  pulseless  ;  moaning,  shuddering, 
hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  refusing  cordials,  medi- 
cines, and,  above  all,  a  doctor's  visit. 

However,  this  could  not  be  allowed  to  last.  Without 
Elsley's  knowledge,  a  messenger  was  despatched  for  Thur- 
nall,  and,  luckilj"-,  met  him  in  the  lane  ;  for  he  was  return- 
ing to  the  town  in  the  footsteps  of  his  victim. 

Elsley's  horror  was  complete  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Lucia  brought  in  none  other  than  his  tormentor. 

"  My  dearest  Elsley,  1  have  sent  for  Mr.  Thurnall.  I 
knew  you  would  not  let  me,  if  I  told  you  ;  but  you  see  1 
have  done  it,  and  now  you  must  really  speak  to  him." 

Elsley's  first  impulse  was  to  motion  them  both  away 
angrily  ;  but  the  thought  that  he  was  in  Thurnall's  power 
stopped  him.  He  must  not  show  his  disgust.  What  if 
Lucia  were  to  ask  its  cause,  even  to  guess  it  ?  for  to  his 
fears  even  that  seemed  possible.  A  fresh  misery !  Just 
because  he  shrank  so  intensely  from  the  man,  he  must 
endure  him  ! 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  said  he,  lan- 
guidly. 

"  1  should  be  the  best  judge  of  that,  after  what  Mrs. 
Vavasour  has  just  told  me,"  said  Tom,  in  his  most  profes- 
sional and  civil  voice,  and  slipped,  cat-like,  into  a  seat 
beside  the  unresisting  poet. 

He  asked  question  on  question  ;  but  Elsley  gave  such 
unsatisfactory  answers  that  Lucia  had  to  detail  everything 
afresh  for  him,  with,  "  You  know,  Mr.  Thurnall,  he  is 
always  overtasking  his  brain,  and  will  never  confess  him- 
self ill,"  and  all  a  woman's  anxious  comments. 

Rogue  Tom  knew  all  the  while  well  enough  what  was 
the  cause  ;  but  he  saw,  too,  that  Elsley  was  really  very  ill. 
He  felt  that  he  must  have  the  matter  out  at  once  ;  and,  by 
a  side  glance,  sent  the  obedient  Lucia  out  of  the  room  to 
get  a  table-spoonful  of  brandy. 

"  Now,    my   dear   sir,    that   we   are   alone,"   began  he 
blandly. 

"  Now,  sir  I  "  answered  Vavasour,  springing  off  the  sofa. 


THE   FIEST   INSTALMENT    OF    AN    OLD    DEBT.  195 

ilis  wiiole  pent-up  wrath  exploding  in  hissing  steam  tha 
moment  the  safety-valve  was  lifted.  "  Now,  sir  !  what^ 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this  insolence,  this  intrusion  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Vavasour,"  answered  Tom, 
rising,  in  a  tone  of  bland  and  stolid  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  want  here,  with  your  mummery  and  med- 
icine, when  you  know  the  cause  of  my  malady  well  enough 
already  ?     Go,  sir  !  and  leave  me  to  myself!  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Tom,  firmly,  "you  seem  to  have  for- 
gotten what  passed  between  us  this  moiming." 

"  Will  you  insult  me  beyond  endurance  ?  "  cried  Elsley. 

"  I  told  you  that,  as  long  as  you  chose,  you  were  Elsley 
Vavasour,  and  I  the  country  doctor.  We  have  met  in  that 
character.  Why  not  sustain  it  ?  You  are  really  ill  ;  and 
if  I  know  the  cause,  I  am  all  the  more  likely  to  know  the 
cure." 

"Cure?" 

"  Why  not?  Believe  me,  it  is  in  your  power  to  become 
a  much  happier  man,  simply  by  becoming  a  healthier  one  " 

"  Impertinence  1  " 

"Pish  I  What  can  I  gain  by  being  impertinent,  sir?  I 
kiu)w  very  well  that  you  have  received  a  severe  shock  ; 
but  1  know  equally  well  that  if  you  were  as  you  ought  to 
be  you  would  not  feel  it  in  this  way.  When  one  sees  a 
man  in  the  state  of  prostration  in  which  you  are,  common 
sense  tells  one  that  the  body  must  have  been  neglected,  for 
the  n)ind  to  gain  such  power  over  it." 

Elsley  replied  with  a  grunt ;  but  Tom  went  on,  bland  and 
imperturbable. 

"  Believe  me  ;  it  may  be  a  very  materialist  view  of  things, 
but  fact  is  fact,  the  corpus  sanum  is  father  to  the  mens  sana 
—  tonics  and  exercise  make  the  ills  of  life  look  marvellously 
sinalUn-.  You  have  the  frame  of  a  strong  and  active  man  ; 
and  all  you  want,  to  make  you  light-hearted  and  cheerful,, 
is  to  develop  what  nature  has  given  you." 

"  It  is  too  late  !  "  said  Elsley,  pleased,  as  most  men  are, 
by  being  told  that  they  might  be  strong  and  active. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Three  months  would  strengthen  vou? 
muscles,  open  your  chest  again,  settle  your  digestion,  and 
make  you  as  fresh  as  a  lark,  and  able  to  sing  like  one.  Be- 
lieve me,  the  poetry  would  be  the  better  for  it,  as  well  aa 
the  stomach.  Now,  positively,  1  shall  begin  questioning 
you." 

So  Elsley  was  won  to  detail  the  symptoms  of  internal 
malaise,  which  he  was  only  too  much  in  the  habit  of  watch- 


196  THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT    OF   AN    OLD    DEBT. 

ino;  liinisclf ;  but  there  were  some  amono^  them  wliich  Toih 
couUl  not  quite  account  for  on  the  ground  of  mere  effemi- 
nate habits.     A  thought  struck  him. 

"  You  sleep  ill,  1  suppose  ?  "  said  he,  carelessly 

"Very  ill." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  opiates  ?  " 

"No  —  yes;  that  is,  sometimes." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Tom,  more  carelessly  still,  for  he  wished  to 
hide,  by  all  means,  the  importance  of  the  confession. 
"  Well,  they  give  relief  for  a  time  ;  but  they  are  dangerous 
things,  disorder  the  digestion,  and  liave  their  re-venge  on 
the  nerves  next  morning,  as  spitefully  as  brandy  itself. 
Much  better  try  a  glass  of  strong  ale  or  porter  just  before 
going  to  bed.  I  've  known  it  give  sleep,  even  in  consump- 
tion ;  try  it,  and  exercise.     You  shoot  ?  " 

"No." 

"Pity;  there  ought  to  be  noble  cocking  in  these  woods. 
However,  the  season  's  past.     You  fish  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Pity  again.  I  hear  Alva  is  full  of  trout.  Why  not  try 
sailing  ?  Nothing  oxygenates  the  lungs  like  a  sail  ;  and 
your  friends  the  fishermen  would  be  delighted  to  have  you 
as  supercargo.  They  are  always  full  of  your  stories  to 
them,  and  your  picking  their  brains  for  old  legends  and 
adventures." 

"  They  are  noble  fellows,  and  I  want  no  better  company  ; 
but,  unfortunately,  I  am  always  sea-sick." 

"  Ah  !  wholesome,  but  unpleasant.  You  are  fond  of  gar- 
dening?" 

"  Very  ;  but  stooping  makes  my  head  swim." 

"True  ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  stoop.  I  hope  to  see 
you  soon  as  erect  as  a  guardsman.     Why  not   try  walks  ?  " 

"Abominable  bores  ;  lonely,  aindess — " 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  're  right.  I  never  knew  but  three 
men  who  took  long  constitutionals  on  principle,  and  two 
of  them  were  cracked.  But  why  not  try  a  companion  ■,  and 
persuade  that  curate,  who  needs  just  the  same  medicine  as 
you,  to  accompany  you?  I  don't  know  a  more  gentleman- 
like, agreeable,  well-informed  man  than  he  is." 

"  Thank  you.     I  can  choose  my  acquaintances  for  my 

self" 

"You  touchy  ass!  "  said  Thurnall  to  himself  "  If  _wg 
were  in  the  blessed  state  of  nature  now,  wouldn't  I  give 
you  ten  minutes'  double  thonging,  and  then  set  you  to 
work,  as  the  runaway  nigger  did  his  master.  Bird  o'  free* 


THE   FIKST   INSTALMENT    OF   AN   OLD   DEBT.  197 

dom  Sawin,  till  you  'd  learnt  a  thing  or  two  !  "  But  blandly 
still  he  went  on. 

"  Try  the  dumb-bells,  then.  Nothing  like  them  for  open- 
ing your  chest.  And  do  get  a  high  desk  made,  and  stand 
to  your  writing,  instead  of  sitting."  And  Tom  actually 
made  Vavasour  promise  to  do  both,  and  bade  him  farewell 
with, 

"Now,  I'll  send  you  up  a  little  tonic,  and  trouble  you 
with  no  more  visits  till  you  send  for  me.  I  shall  see  by 
one  glance  at  your  face  whether  you  are  following  my  pre- 
scriptions. And,  I  say,  I  would  n't  meddle  with  those 
opiates  any  more  ;  try  good  malt  and  hops  instead." 

"Those  who  driuk  beer  think  beer,"  said  Elsley,  smiling, 
for  he  was  getting  more  hopeful  of  himself,  and  his  terrors 
were  vanishing  beneath  Tom's  skilful  management. 

"  And  those  who  drink  water  think  water.  The  Eliza- 
bethans—  Sidney  and  Shakspeare,  Burleigh  and  Queen 
Bess — worked  on  beef  and  ale  ;  and  you  would  not  class 
them  among  the  muddle-headed  of  the  earth  ?  Believe  me, 
to  write  well  you  must  live  well.  If  you  take  it  out  of  your 
brain  you  must  put  it  in  again.  It's  a  question  of  fact. 
Try  for  yourself."  And  off  Tom  went ;  while  Lucia  rushed 
back  to  her  husband,  covered  him  with  caresses,  assured 
him'  that  he  was  seven  times  as  ill  as  he  really  was,  and  so 
nursed  and  petted  him  that  he  felt  himself,  for  that  time  at 
least,  a  beast  and  a  fool  for  having  suspected  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. Ah,  woman,  if  you  only  knew  how  you  carry  our 
hearts  in  your  hands,  and  would  but  use  your  power  for  our 
benefit,  what  angels  you  might  make  us  all ! 

"So,"  said  Tom,  as  he  went  home,  "  he  has  found  his 
way  to  the  elevation-bottle,  has  he,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Heale  ? 
It's  no  concern  of  mine  ;  but,  as  a  professional  man,  I  must 
stop  that.  You  will  certainly  be  no  credit  to  me  if  you  kill 
yourself  under  my  hands." 

Tom  went  straight  home,  showed  the  blacksmith  how  to 
make  a  pair  of  dumb-bells,  covered  them  himself  with 
leather,  and  sent  them  up  the  next  morning,  with  directions 
to  1)0  used  for  half  an  hour  morning  and  evening. 

And  something  —  whether  it  was  the  dumb-l)ells,  or  the 
tonic,  or  wholesome  fear  of  the  terrible  doctor  —  kept  Elsley 
for  the  next^mojith  in  better  spirits  and  temper  than  he  had 
been  in  for  a  long  while. 

Moreover,  Tom  set  Lucia  to  coax  him  into  walking  with 
Tleadley.  She  succeeded  at  last ;  and,  on  the  whole,  each 
nf  them  soon  I'ound  that  he  had  something  to  learn  from  the 

n* 


198  THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT    OF   AN   OLD    DEBT. 

other,  Elslcy  improved  daily  in  health,  and  Lucia  wrote 
to  "Valencia  flaming  accounts  of  the  wonderful  doctor  who 
had  been  cast  on  sliore  in  their  world's  end  ;  and  received 
from  her  after  a  while  this,  amid  much  more  —  for  fancy  is 
not  exuberant  enough  to  reproduce  the  whole  of  a  young 
lady's  letter. 

•'  —  1  am  so  ashamed.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  of  that 
doctor  a  fortniglit  ago  :  but,  rattle-pate  as  I  am,  I  forgot  all 
about  it.  Do  you  know,  he  is  Sabina  Mellot's  dearest 
friend,  and  she  begged  me  to  recommend  him  to  you,  but  I 
put  it  off,  and  then  it  slipped  my  memory,  like  everything 
else  good.  She  has  told  me  the  most  wonderful  stories  of 
his  courage  and  goodness  ;  and,  conceive,  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  taken  prisoners  with  him  by  the  savages  in  the 
South  Seas,  and  going  to  be  eaten,  she  says  ;  but  he  helped 
them  to  escape  in  a  canoe  —  such  a  story  !  —  and  lived  with 
them  for  three  months  on  a  beautiful  desert  island  ;  — it  is 
all  like  a  fairy  tale.  1  'U  tell  it  you  when  I  come,  darling, 
which  I  shall  do  in  a  fortnight,  and  we  shall  be  all  so 
happy.  I  have  such  a  box  ready  fur  you  and  the  chicks, 
which  I  shall  bring  with  me  ;  and  some  pretty  things  from 
Scoutbush,  beside,  who  is  very  low,  poor  fellow,  1  cannot 
conceive  what  about,  but  wonderfully  tender  about  you.  I 
fancy  he  must  be  in  love  ;  for  lie  stood  up  the  other  day 
about  you  to  my  aunt,  quite  solemnly,  with,  '  Let  her  alone, 
my  lady.  She  's  not  the  first  whom  love  has  made  a  fool 
of,  and  she  won't  be  the  last ;  and  I  believe  that  some  of 
the  moves  which  look  most  foolish  turn  out  best  after  all. 
Live  and  let  live  ;  everybody  knows  their  own  business 
best;  anything  is  better  than  marriage  without  real  affec- 
tion.' Conceive  my  astonishment  at  hearing  the  dear  littlfl 
fellow  turn  sage  in  that  way  I 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  had  to  quote  his  own  advice  against 
him,  for  I  have  refused  Lord  Clialkclere  after  all.  1  told 
him  (C.  not  S.)  that  he  was  mucli  too  good  for  me  ;  far  too 
perfect  and  complete  a  person  ;  that  I  preferred  a  husband 
whom  I  could  break  in  for  myself,  even  though  he  gave  me 
a  little  trouble.  Scoutbush  was  cross  at  first ;  but  he  said 
afterwards  that  it  was  just  like  Baby  Blake  (the  wretch 
always  calls  me  Baby  Blake  now,  after  that  dreadful  girl  in 
Lever's  novel  !)  ;  and  I  told  him  frankly  that  it  was,  if  ho 
meant  that  I  had  sooner  break  in  a  thoroughbred  foi  myself, 
even  though  I  had  a  fall  or  two  in  the  process,  than  jog 
along  on  the  most  finished  little  pony  on  earth,  who  would 
never  go  out  of  an  amble.     Lord  Chalkclere  may  be  very 


THE   FIRST   INSTALMENT   OF    AN   OLD   DEBT.  199 

finished,  and  learned,  and  excellent,  and  so  forth  ;  but,  ma 
cliere,  I  want,  not  a  white  rabbit  (of  which  he  always  re 
minds  me),  but  a  hero,  even  though  he  be  a  naiig-hty  one. 
I  always  fancy  people  must  be  very  little  if  they  can  be  fin- 
ished off  so  rapidly  ;  if  there  was  any  real  verve  in  them, 
they  would  take  somewhat  longer  to  g-row.  Lord  Chalk- 
clere  would  do  very  well  to  bind  in  Russia  leather,  and  put 
on  one's  library  shelves,  to  be  consulted  when  one  forgot  a 
date ;  but,  really,  even  your  Ulysses  of  a  doctor,  —  pro- 
vided, of  course,  he  turned  out  a  prince  in  disguise,  and 
don't  leave  out  his  h's, — would  be  more  to  the  taste  of 
your  nswightiest  of  sisters." 


CHAPTER    XII. 

A   PEER   IN   TROUBLE. 

Somewhere  in  those  days,  so  it  seems,  did  Mr.  Bowie 
call  unto  himself  a  cab  at  the  barrack-gate,  and,  dressed 
in  his  best  array,  repair  to  the  wikls  of  Brompton,  and 
request  to  see  either  Claude  or  Mrs.  Mellot. 

Bowie  is  an  ex-Scots-Fusileer,  who,  damaged  by  the  kick 
of  a  horse,  has  acted  as  valet,  first  to  Scoutbush's  father, 
and  next  to  Scoutbush  himself.  He  is  of  a  patronizing 
habit  of  mind,  as  befits  a  tolerably  "  leeterary  "  Scotsman 
(jf  forty-five  years  of  age,  and  six  feet  three  in  height,  who 
has  full  confidence  in  the  integrity  of  his  own  virtue,  the 
iuiallibility  of  his  own  opinion,  and  the  strength  of  his  own 
right  arm  ;  for  Bowie,  though  he  has  a  rib  or  two  "  dinged 
in,"  is  mighty  still  as  Theseus'  self;  and  both  astonished 
his  red-bearded  compatriots,  and  won  money  for  his  n"iaster, 
by  his  prowess  in  the  late  feat  of  arms  at  Holland  House. 

Mr.  Bowie  is  asked  to  walk  into  Sabina's  boudoir  (for 
Claude  is  out  in  the  garden),  to  sit  down,  and  deliver  his 
message  ;  which  he  does  after  a  due  military  salute,  sitting 
bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  and  in  a  solemn  and  sonorous 
voice. 

"  Well,  madam,  it 's  just  this,  that  his  lordship  would  be 
very  glad  to  see  ye  and  Mr.  Mellot,  for  he  's  vary  ill  indeed, 
and  tliat  's  truth  ;  and  if  he  winna  tell  ye  the  cause,  then  I 
will  —  and  it's  just  a'  for  love  of  this  play-acting  body  here, 
and  more  's  the  pity." 

"  More  's  the  pity,  indeed  !  " 

"  And  it's  my  opeeiuon  the  puir  laddie  will  just  die  if 
ncbody  sees  to  him  ;  and  I  've  taken  the  liberty  of  writing 
to  Major  Cawmill  mysel',  to  beg  him  to  come  up  and  see 
to  him,  for  it's  a  pity  to  see  liis  lordship  cast  away,  for 
\vant  of  an  understanding  body  to  advise  him." 

"  So  I  am  not  an  understanding  body,  Bowie  ?  " 

"  0,  madam,  ye  're  young  and  bonny,"  says  Bowie,  in  a 
tone  in  which  admiration  is  not  unmingled  with  pity. 

(200) 


A    PEER    IN    TKOUBLE,  201 

"Young,  indeed!  Mr.  Bowie,  do  you  know  that  I 'ni 
almost  as  old  as  you  ?  " 

"  Hoot,  hut,  hut  —  "  says  Bowie,  looking  at  the  wax-like 
complexion  and  bright  hawk-eyes. 

"  Really  I  am.    1  'm  past  five-and-thirty  this  many  a  day." 

"  Weel,  then,  madam,  if  you  '11  excuse  me,  ye  're  old 
enough  to  be  wiser  than  to  let  his  lordship  be  inveigled 
with  any  such  play-acting." 

"  Really  he 's  not  inveigled,"  says  Sabina,  laughing. 
"  It  is  all  his  own  fault,  and  1  have  warned  him  how  absurd 
and  impossible  it  is.  She  has  refused  even  to  see  him  ; 
and  you  know  yourself  he  has  not  been  near  our  house  for 
these  three  weeks." 

"Ah,  madam,  you'll  excuse  me;  but  that's  the  way 
with  that  sort  of  people,  just  to  draw  back  and  draw  back, 
to  make  a  poor  young  gentleman  follow  them  all  the  keener, 
as  a  trout  does  a  minnow,  the  faster  you  spin  it." 

"  I  assure  you  no.  I  can't  let  you  into  ladies'  secrets  ; 
but  there  is  no  more  chance  of  her  listening  to  him  than 
of  me.  And  as  for  me,  1  have  been  tr}- ing  all  the  spring  to 
marry  him  to  a  young  lad}'  with  eighty  thousand  pounds  : 
so  you  can't  complain  of  me." 

"  Eh  ?     No.     That 's  more  like  and  fitting." 

"Well,  now.  Tell  his  lordship  that  we  are  coming;  and 
trust  us,  Mr.  Bowie  ;  we  do  not  look  verj;  villanous,  do 
we?" 

"  Faith,  'deed  then,  and  I  suppose  not,"  said  Bowie, 
using  the  verb  which,  in  his  cautious,  Scottish  tongue, 
expresses  complete  certaint}'.  The  truth  is,  that  Bowie 
adores  both  Sabina  and  her  husband,  who  are,  he  says, 
"just  fit  to  be  put  under  a  glass  case  on  the  sideboard,  like 
twa  wee  china  angels." 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  in  Scoutbush's  rooms.  They 
found  the  little  man  lying  on  his  sofa,  in  his  dressing-gown, 
looking  pale  and  pitiable  enough.  He  had  been  trying  to 
read  ;  for  the  table  by  him  was  covered  with  books  :  but 
either  gunnery  and  mathematics  had  injured  his  eyes,  or  he 
had  been  crying  :   Sabina  inclined  to  the  latter  opinion. 

"  This  is  very  kind  of  you  both  ;  but  I  don't  want  you, 
Claude.  I  want  Mrs.  Mellot.  You  go  to  the  window  with 
Bowie." 

Bowie  and  Claude  shrugged  their  shoulders  at  each  other, 
and  departed. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Mellot,  I  can't  help  looking  up  to  you  as  a 
mother." 


2v)2  A    PEER    IN    TROUBLE, 

"  Complimentary  to  my  youth,"  says  Sabina,  Avho  alwaya 
calls  luTself  young  when  she  is  called  old,  and  old  when 
she  is  called  young. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  he  rude.  But  one  does  long  to  open 
une's  heart.  1  never  had  any  mother  to  talk  to,  you  know  ; 
and  I  can't  tell  my  aunt ;  and  Valencia  is  so  flighty  ;  and 
I  thought  you  would  give  me  one  chance  more.  Don't 
laugh  at  me,  1  say.     I  am  really  past  laughing  at." 

"  I  see  you  are,  you  poor  creature,"  says  Sabina,  melt- 
ing ;  and  a  long  conversation  follows,  while  Claude  and 
Bowie  exchange  confidences,  and  arrive  at  no  lesult  beyond 
the  undeniable  assertion,  "  it  is  a  very  bad  job." 

Presently  Sabina  comes  out,  and  Scoutbush  calls  cheer- 
fully from  the  sofa  : 

"  Bowie,  get  my  bath  and  things  to  dress  ;  and  order  me 
the  cab  in  half  an  hour.  Good-by,  you  dear  people,  1  shall 
never  thank  j'ou  enough." 

Away  go  Claude  and  Sabina  in  a  hack-cab. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"Given  him  what  he  entreated  for, — another  chance 
with  Marie." 

"  It  will  only  madden  him  all  the  more.  Why  let  him 
try,  when  you  know  it  is  hopeless  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse  —  that's  the  truth  ; 
and,  beside,  I  don't  know  that  it  is  hopeless." 

"  All  the  naughtier  of  you,  to  let  him  run  the  chance  of 
making  a  fool  of  himself." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  will  make  such  a  great  fool  of 
himself.  As  he  says,  his  grandfather  married  an  actress, 
and  why  should  not  he  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  she  won't  marry  him." 

"  And  how  do  3^ou  know  that,  sir  't  You  fancy  that  you 
understand  all  the  women's  hearts  in  England,  just  because 
you  have  found  out  the  secret  of  managing  one  h'ttle  fool." 

"  Managing  her,  quotha  !  Being  managed  by  her,  till  my 
quiet  house  is  turned  into  a  perfect  volcano  of  match- 
making.    Why,  I  thought  he  was  to  marry  Manchesterina." 

"  lie  shall  marn>'  whom  he  likes  :  and  if  Marie  changes 
her  mind,  and  revenges  herself  on  this  .\merican  by  taking 
Lord  Scoutbush,  all  1  can  say  is,  it  will  be  a  just  judgment 
on  him.  I  have  no  patience  with  the  heartless  fellow,  going 
nfV  thus,  and  never  evei^  leaving  his  address." 

"  And  because  you  have  no  patience,  ycu  think  Marie 
will  have  none  ?  " 


A    PEER    IN    -TROUBLE.  203 

"  What  do  you  know  about  women's  hearts  ?  Lea\re  ua 
lo  mind  our  own  matters." 

"  Mr.  Bowie  will  kill  you  outright,  if  your  plot  succeeds." 

"  No,  he  won't.  I  know  who  Bowie  wants  to  marry ; 
and  if  he  is  not  good,  he  shan't  have  her.  Besides,  it  will 
be  such  fun  to  spite  old  Lady  Knockdown,  who  always 
turns  up  her  nose  at  me  !  Ilow  mad  she  will  be  !  Here  we 
are  at  heme.     Now,  I  shall  go  and  prepare  Marie." 

An  hour  after,  Scoutbush  was  pleading  his  cause  with 
Marie  ;  and  had  been  met,  of  course,  at  starting,  with  the 
simple  rejoinder,  — 

"  But,  my  lord,  you  would  not  surely  have  me  marry 
where  I  do  not  love  ?  " 

"  0,  of  course  not;  but,  you  see,  people  very  often  get 
love  after  they  are  married  ;  and  I  am  sure  1  would  do 
all  to  make  you  love  me.  I  know  I  can't  bribe  you  by 
promising  you  carriages  and  jewels,  and  all  that ;  —  but  you 
should  have  what  you  would  like  —  pictures,  and  statues, 
and  books — and  all  that  I  can  buy  —  0,  madam,  I  know  I 
am  not  worthy  of  you  —  I  never  had  any  education  as  you 
have  !  —  " 

Marie  smiled  a  sad  smile. 

"  But  I  would  learn  —  I  know  I  could  —  for  I  am  no  fool, 
though  I  say  it.  I  like  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  —  and  if 
I  had  you  to  teach  me,  I  should  care  about  nothing  else 
I  have  given  up  all  my  nonsense  since  I  knew  you  ;  indeed 
1  have  —  I  am  trying  all  day  long  to  read  —  ever  since  you 
said  something  about  being  useful,  and  noble,  and  doing 
one's  work :  —  I  have  never  forgotten  that,  madam,  and 
never  shall ;  and  you  would  find  me  a  pleasant  person  to 
live  with,  I  do  believe.  At  all  events  I  would  —  0  madam 
—  I  would  be  3'our  servant,  your  dog  —  I  would  fetch  and 
carry  for  you  like  a  negro  slave  !  " 

Marie  turned  pale,  and  rose. 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  lord  ;  this  must  end.  You  do  not 
know  to  whom  you  are  speaking.  You  talk  of  negro  slaves. 
Know  that  you  are  talking  to  one  !  " 

Scoutbush  looked  at  her  in  blank  astonishment. 

"  Madam  ?     Excuse  me  ;  but  my  own  eyes  —  " 

"  You  are  not  to  trust  them  ;  I  tell  you  fact." 

Scoutbush  was  silent.  She  misunderstood  his  silence  ; 
but  went  on  steadily. 

"  I  tell  you,  my  lord,  what  I  expect  you  to  keep  secret 
and  I  know  that  I  can  trust  your  honor." 

Scoutbush  bowed. 


204.  A   PEER   IN   TROUBLE. 

"  And  what  I  should  never  have  told  you,  were  it  no*  my 
only  chance  of  curing  you  of"  this  foolish  passion.  I  am  an 
American  slave  !  " 

"  Curse  them  !  Who  dared  make  you  a  slave?"  cried 
Scoutbush,  turning  as  red  as  a  game-cock. 

"  1  was  born  a  slave.  My  father  was  a  white  gentleman 
of  good  family  ;  my  mother  was  a  quadroon  ;  and,  thorelbre, 
I  am  a  slave  ;  a  ncgress,  a  runaway  slave,  my  lord,  who,  if 
I  returned  to  America,  should  be  seized,  and  chained,  and 
ecourged,  and  sold.     Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  What  an  infernal  shame  !  "  cried  Scoutbush,  to  whom 
the  whole  thing  appeared  simply  as  a  wrong  done  to  Marie. 

"Well,  my  lord?" 

"  Well,  madam?  " 

"  Does  not  this  fact  put  the  question  at  rest  forever  ?  " 

"  No,  madam  !  What  do  I  know  about  slaves  ?  No  one 
is  a  slave  in  England.  No,  madam  ;  all  that  it  docs  is  to 
make  me  long  to  cut  half  a  dozen  fellows'  throats  —  "  and 
Scoutbush  stamped  with  rage.  "  No,  madam,  you  are  you  ; 
and  if  you  become  my  viscountess,  you  take  my  rank,  I 
trust,  and  my  name  is  yours,  and  my  family  yours  ;  and  let 
me  see  who  dare  interfere  !  " 

"  But  public  opinion,  my  lord  ?  "  said  Marie,  haif-pleasod, 
half-terrified,  to  find  the  shaft  which  she  had  fancied  fatal 
fall  harmless  at  her  feet. 

"  Public  opinion  ?  You  don't  know  England,  madam  ! 
What 's  the  use  of  my  being  a  peer,  if  1  can't  do  what  I 
like,  and  make  public  opinion  go  my  way,  and  not  I  its? 
Though  I  am  no  great  prince,  madam,  but  oidy  a  poor  Irish 
viscount,  it 's  hard  if  I  can't  marry  whom  I  like  —  in  reason, 
that  is  —  and  expect  all  the  world  to  call  on  her,  and  treat 
her  as  she  deserves.  Why,  madam,  you  will  have  all  Lon- 
don at  your  feet  after  a  season  or  two,  and  all  the  more  if 
they  know  your  story  ;  or  if  you  don't  like  that,  or  if  fools 
did  talk  at  first,  why  we  'd  go  and  live  quietly  at  Kilan- 
baggan,  or  at  Penalva,  and  you  'd  have  all  the  tenants  look- 
ing up  to  you  as  a  goddess,  as  1  do,  madam.  0,  madam,  I 
would  go  anywhere,  live  anywhere,  only  to  be  with  you  !  " 

Marie  was  deeply  affected.  Making  all  allowances  for 
the  wilfulness  of  youth,  she  could  not  but  see  that  her  origin 
formed  no  bar  whatever  to  her  marrying  a  nobleman  ;  and 
that  he  honestly  believed  that  it  would  form  nt)ne  in  the 
opinion  of  his  compeers,  if  she  proved  herself  worthy  of  his 
choice  ;  and,  full  of  new  emotions,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"There,  now,  you   are   melting;   I   knew   you    would' 


A    PEEE   IN   TROUBLE.  205 

Madam!  Signori !  "  and  Scoutbush  advanced  to  take  her 
hand. 

"  Never  less,"  cried  she,  drawing  back.  "  Do  not ;  you 
only  make  me  miserable  !  I  tell  you  it  is  impossible.  I 
cannot  tell  you  all.  You  must  not  do  yourself  and  yours 
such  an  injustice  !     Go,  I  tell  you  !  " 

Scoutbush  still  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

"Go,  I  entreat  you,"  cried  she,  at  her  wit's  end,  "or  I 
will  really  ring  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Mellot !  " 

'•  You  need  not  do  that,  madam,"  said  he,  drawing  him- 
self up;  "I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  being  troublesome  to 
ladies,  or  being  turned  out  of  drawing-rooms.  I  see  how  it 
is  —  "  and  his  tone  softened;  "you  despise  me,  and  think 
me  a  vain,  frivolous  puppy.  Well !  I  '11  do  something  yet 
that  you  shall  not  despise  !  "  and  he  turned  to  go. 

"1  do  not  despise  you;  I  think  you  a  generous,  high- 
hearted gentleman  —  nobleman  in  all  senses." 

Scoutbush  turned  again. 

"  But,  again,  impossible  !  I  shall  always  respect  you  ; 
out  we  must  never  meet  again." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Little  Freddy  caught  and  kissed 
it  till  he  was  breathless,  and  then  rushed  out,  and  blundered 
over  Sabina  in  the  next  room. 

"No  hope?" 

"  None."  And,  though  he  tried  to  squeeze  his  eyes  to- 
gether very  tight,  the  great  tears  would  come  dropping 
down. 

Sabina  took  him  to  a  sofa,  and  sat  him  down  while  he 
made  his  little  moan. 

"  I  told  you  that  she  was  in  love  with  the  American." 

"  Then  why  don't  he  come  back  and  marry  her?  Hang 
him,  I  '11  go  after  him  and  make  him  !  "  cried  Scoutbush, 
glad  of  any  object  on  which  to  vent  his  wrath. 

"  You  can't,  for  nobod}'-  knows  where  he  is.  Now,  do  be 
good  and  patient ;  you  will  forget  all  this." 

"  I  shan't !  " 

"  You  will, —  not  at  first,  but  gradually, —  and  marry  some 
one  really  more  fit  for  you." 

"  Ah,  but  if  I  marry  her  I  shan't  love  her  ;  and  then,  you 
know,  Mrs.  Mellot,  I  shall  go  to  the  bad  again,  just  as  much 
as  rver.     0,  I  was  trying  to  be  steady  for  her  sake  !  " 

"  You  can  be  that  still." 

"  Yes,  but  it 's  so.  1;  ard,  with  nothing  to  hope  for.  I  'm 
not  fit  to  take  care  of  myself.  I  'm  fit  for  nothing,  I  believe, 
18 


206  A    PEER   IN   TROUBLE. 

but  to  go  out  and  be  shot  by  those  Russians  ;  and  1  '11 
doit!" 

"  You  must  not ;  you  are  not  strong  enough.  The  doc- 
tors would  not  let  you  go  as  you  are." 

"  Then  I  '11  get  strong  ;  I  '11  —  " 

"  You  '11  go  home,  and  be  good." 

"  An't  I  good  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  good,  sensible  fellow,  and  have  behaved 
nobly,  and  I  honor  you  for  it,  and  Claude  shall  come  and 
Bee  you  every  day." 

That  evening  a  note  came  from  Scoutbush. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Mellot  :  Whom  should  I  find  when  I  went 
home,  but  Campbell  ?  I  told  him  all ;  and  he  says  that  j'ou 
and  everybody  have  done  quite  right,  so  I  suppose  you 
have  ;  and  that  I  am  quite  right  in  trying  to  get  out  to  the 
East,  so  I  shall  do  it.  But  the  doctor  says  1  must  rest  for 
six  weeks  at  least.  So  Campbell  has  persuaded  me  to  take 
the  yacht,  which  is  at  Southampton,  and  go  down  to 
Aberalva,  and  then  round  to  Snowdon,  where  1  have  a  little 
slate  quarry,  and  get  some  fishing.  Campbell  is  coining 
with  me,  and  I  wish  Claude  would  come  too.  lie  knows 
that  brother-in-law  of  mine,  Vavasour,  I  think,  and  I  shall 
go  and  make  friends  with  him.  I  've  got  very  merciful  to 
foolish  lovers  lately,  and  Claude  can  help  me  to  face  him  ; 
for  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  geniuses,  you  know.  So,  there 
we  '11  pick  up  my  sister  (she  goes  down  by  land  this  week), 
and  then  go  on  to  Snowdon  ;  and  Claude  can  visit  his  old 
quarters  at  the  Royal  Oak,  at  Bettws,  where  he  and  1  had 
that  jolly  week  among  the  painters.  Do  let  him  come,  and 
beg  La  Signora  not  to  be  angry  with  me.  That 's  all  1  '11 
ever  ask  of  her  ag'ain." 


•&' 


"  Poor  fellow!     But  I  can't  part  with  you,  Claude." 

"  Let  him,"  said  La  Cordifiamma.     "  He  will  comfort  his 

lordship  ;  and  do  you  come  with  me." 
"  Come  with  you  ?     Where  ?  " 
"  I  will  tell  you  when  Claude  is  gone." 
"  Claude,  go  and  smoke  in  the  garden.     Now  ?  " 
"  Come  with  me  to  Germany,  Sabina." 
"  To  Germany  ?     Why  on  earth  to  Germany  ?  " 
"I  —  I  only  said  Germany  because  it  came  first  into  my 

mind.     Anywhere  for  rest ;  anywhere  to  be  out  of  that  pooi 

man's  way." 


A    PEER    IN    TROUBLE.  207 

"  He  will  not  trouble  you  any  more  ;  and  you  will  not 
surely  throw  up  your  engagement  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not!  "  said  she,  Imlf  peevisldy.  "It  will  bo 
over  in  a  fortnight ;  and  then  I  must  have  rest.  Don't  you 
see  how  I  want  rest  ?  " 

Sabina  had  seen  it  for  some  time  past.  That  white  cheek 
had  been  fading  more  and  more  to  a  wax-like  paleness  ; 
those  black  eyes  glittered  with  tierce,  unhealthy  light ;  and 
dark  rings  round  them  told,  not  merely  of  late  hours  and 
excitement,  but  of  wild  passion  and  midnight  teai'S.  Sabina 
had  seen  all,  and  could  not  but  give  way,  as  Marie  went  on, 

"  I  must  have  rest,  I  tell  you  !  I  am  beginning  —  I  con- 
fess all  to  you  —  to  want  stimulants.  I  am  beginning  to 
long  for  brandy  and  water  —  pah  !  —  to  nerve  me  up  to  the 
excitement  of  acting,  and  then  for  morphine  to  make  me 
sleep  after  it.  The  very  eau  de  Cologne  flask  tempts  me  ! 
They  say  that  the  fine  ladies  use  it,  before  a  ball,  for  other 
purposes  than  scent.  You  would  not  like  to  see  me  com- 
mence that  practice,  would  you  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  fear,  dear." 

"  Tliere  is  fear !  You  do  not  know  the  craving  for  exhila- 
ration, the  capability  of  self-indulgence,  in  our  wild  Tropic 
blood.  0,  Sabina,  1  feel  at  times  that  I  could  sink  so  low  — 
that  I  could  be  so  wicked,  so  utterly  wicked,  if  I  once  began  ! 
Take  me  away,  dearest  creature,  take  me  away,  and  let  me 
have  fresh  air,  and  fair  quiet  scenes,  and  rest  —  rest!  0, 
save  me,  Sabina !  "  and  she  put  her  hands  over  her  face, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  We  will  go,  then  ;  —  to  the  Rhine,  shall  it  be  ?  I  have 
not  been  there  now  for  these  three  years,  and  it  will  be  such 
fun  running  about  the  world  by  myself  once  more,  and 
knowing  all  the  while  that  — "  and  Sabina  stopped  ;  she 
did  not  like  to  remind  Marie  of  the  painful  contrast  between 
them. 

"  To  the  Rhine  ?  Yes.  And  I  shall  see  the  beautiful  old 
world,  the  old  vineyards,  and  castles,  and  hills,  which  he 
used  to  tell  me  of — taught  me  to  read  of  in  those  sweet, 
sweet  books  of  Longfellow's !  So  gentle,  and  pure,  and 
calm  —  so  unlike  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  we  will  see  them  ;  and,  perhaps  —  " 

Marie  looked  up  at  her,  guessing  her  thoughts,  and 
blushed  scarlet. 

"You,  too,  think  then,  that  —  that  — "  she  could  not 
finish  her  sentence. 


208  A    PEER    IN    TROUBLE. 

Sabina  stooped  over  her,  and  the  two  beautiful  mouths 
met. 

"  There,  darling-,  we  need  say  nothing.  We  are  both 
women,  and  can  talk  without  words." 

"  Tiien  you  think  there  is  hope  ?  " 

"Hope!'  Do  you  fancy  that  lie  has  gone  so  very  far? 
Or  lliat  if  ho  were,  I  could  not  hunt  liini  out?  Have  I  wan- 
dered half  round  the  world  alone  for  nothing?" 

"No,  but  hope  —  hope  that  —  " 

"  Not  hope,  but  certainty  ;  if  some  one  I  know  had  but 
courage." 

"  Courage  —  to  do  what  ?  " 

"  To  trust  him  utterly." 

Marie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  shuddered  in 
every  limb. 

"  You  know  my  story.  Did  I  gain  or  lose  by  tellina-  mv 
Claude  all?"  ^  b     J 

"1  will!"  she  cried,  looking  up,  pale  but  firm.  "I 
will ! "  and  she  looked  steadfastly^  into  the  mirror  over  the 
chimney-piece,  as  if  trying  to  court  the  reappearance  of  that 
ugly  vision  which  haunted  it,  and  so  to  nerve  herself  to  the 
utmost,  and  fiice  the  whole  truth. 

In  little  more  than  a  fortnight  Sabina  and  Marie,  with 
maid  and  courier  (for  Marie  was  rich  now),  were  away  in 
the  old  Antwerpen.  And  Claude  was  rolling  down  to 
Southampton  by  rail,  with  Campbell,  Scoutbush,  and  last 
but  not  least,  the  faithful  Bowie,  who  had  under  hir  charge 
what  he  described  to  the  puzzled  railway  guard  as  "  goadif 
and  clciks,  and  pirns  and  creels,  and  beuks  ani  beuks, 
enough  for  a'  the  cods  o'  Neufunlaad." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 
l'homme  incompris. 

Elslsy  went  on,  between  improved  health  and  the  fear  of 
Tom  Thurnall,  a  good  deal  better  for  the  next  month.  He 
began  to  look  forward  to  Valencia's  visit  with  equanimity, 
and,  at  last,  with  interest ;  and  was  rather  pleased  tlian 
otherwise  when,  in  the  last  week  of  July,  a  fly  drove  up  to 
the  gate  of  old  Penalva  Court,  and  he  handed  out  therefrom 
Valencia  and  Valencia's  maid. 

Lucia  had  discovered  that  the  wind  was  east,  and  that 
she  was  afraid  to  go  to  the  gate  for  fear  of  catching  cold  ; 
her  real  purpose  being  that  Valencia  should  meet  Elsley 
first. 

"  She  is  so  impulsive,"  thought  the  good  little  creature, 
always  plotting  about  her  husband,  "that  she  will  rush 
upon  me,  and  never  see  him  for  the  fii'st  five  minutes  ;  and 
Elsley  is  so  sensitive — how  can  he  be  otherwise  in  his 
position,  poor  dear?"  So  she  refrained  herself,  like  Joseph, 
and  stood  at  the  door  till  Valencia  was  half-way  down  the 
garden-walk,  having  taken  Elsley's  somewhat  shyly-ofiered 
arm ;  and  then  she  could  refrain  herself  no  longer,  and  the 
two  women  ran  upon  each  other,  and  kissed,  and  sobbed, 
and  talked,  till  Lucia  was  out  of  breath  ;  but  Valencia  was 
not  so  easily  silenced. 

"  My  darling  !  —  and  you  are  looking  so  much  better  than 
J  expected  ;  but  not  quite  yourself  yet.  That  naughty 
bab}'^  is  killing  you,  I  am  sure  !  And  Mr.  Vavasour,  too,  I 
shall  begin  to  call  him  Elsley  to-morrow,  if  I  like  him  as 
much  as  I  do  now.  But  he  is  looking  quite  thin  —  wearing 
himself  out  with  writing  so  many  beautiful  books,  —  that 
Wreck  was  perfect !  And  where  are  the  children  ?  —  I  must 
rush  up  stairs  and  devour  them  !  —  and  what  a  delicious  old 
g-arden  !  and  dipt  yews,  too,  so  dark  and  romantic,  and  such 
dear  old-fashioned  flowers!  —  Mr.  Vavasour  must  show  me 
all  over  it,  and  over  that  hanging  wood,  too.  What  a  duck 
of  a  place  I  —  And  0,  my  dear,  I  am  quite  out  of  breath  1  " 
18*  (2e9) 


210  l'homme  incompris. 

And  so  she  swept  in,  with  her  arm  round  Lucia's  'vaist  *, 
wliile  Elsley  stood  looking  after  her,  well  enough  satisfied 
with  her  reception  of  him,  and  only  hoping  that  the  stream 
of  words  would  slacken  after  a  while. 

"  What  a  magnificent  creature  !  "  said  he  to  himself. 
"  Who  could  believe  that  the  three  years  would  make  such 
a  change  ?  " 

And  he  was  right.  The  tall,  lithe  giil  nad  bloomed  into 
full  glory  ;  and  Valencia  St.  Just,  though  not  delicately 
beautiful,  was  as  splendid  an  Irish  damsel  as  man  need  look 
upon,  with  a  grand  masque,  aquiline  features,  luxuriant 
black  hair,  and  —  though  it  was  the  fag-end  of  the  London 
season  —  the  unrivalled  Irish  complexion,  as  of  the  fair  dame 
of  Kilkeun}'^,  whose 

"  Lips  were  like  roses,  her  cheeks  were  the  same. 
Like  a  dish  of  fresh  strawberries  smothered  in  crame." 

Her  figure  was  perhaps  too  tall,  and  somewhat  too  stout 
also  ;  but  its  size  was  relieved  by  the  delicacy  of  those 
hands  and  feet,  of  which  Miss  Valencia  was  most  pardona- 
bly proud,  and  by  that  indescribable  lissomeness  and  lazy 
grace  whicli  Irishwomen  inherit,  perhaps,  with  their  tinge 
of  southern  blood ;  and  when,  in  half  an  hour,  she  reap- 
peared, with  broad  straw  hat,  and  gown  tucked  up  a  la  ber- 
gere  over  the  striped  Welsh  petticoat,  perhaps  to  show  off 
the  ankles,  which  only  looked  the  finer  for  a  pair  of  heavy 
laced  boots,  Elsley  honestly  felt  it  a  pleasure  to  look  at  her, 
and  a  still  greater  pleasure  to  talk  to  her,  and  to  be  talked 
to  by  her  ;  while  she,  bent  on  making  herself  agreeable, 
partly  from  real  good  taste,  partly  from  natural  good  nature, 
and  partly,  too,  because  she  saw  in  his  eyes  that  he  admired 
her,  chatted  sentiment  about  all  heaven  and  earth. 

For  to  Miss  Valencia  —  it  is  sad  to  have  to  say  it  — 
admiration  had  been  now,  for  three  years,  her  daily  bread. 
She  had  lived  in  the  thickest  whirl  of  the  world,  and,  as 
most  do  for  a  while,  found  it  a  very  pleasant  place. 

She  had  flirted  —  with  how  many  must  not  be  told  ;  and 
p(  rhaps  with  more  than  one  with  whom  she  had  no  business 
to  flirt.  Little  Scoutbush  had  remonstrated  with  her  on 
some  such  affair,  but  she  had  silenced  him  with  an  Irish 
jest,  —  "  You're  a  flshorman,  Freddy  ;  and  when  you  can't 
catch  salmon,  you  catch  trout  ;  and  when  you  can't  catch 
trout,  you  '11  vvliip  on  the  shallow  for  poor  little  gubbahawns, 
and  say  that  it  is  all  to  keep  your  hand  in  —  and  so  do  I." 

The  old  ladies  said  that  this  was  the  reason  why  she  had 


L  HOMME   INCOMPRIS.  211 

not  married;  the  men,  however,  asserted  that  no  one  dare 
marry  her  ;  and  one  club  oracle  had  given  it  as  his  opinion 
that  no  man  in  his  rational  senses  was  to  be  allowed  to'have 
anything  to  do  with  her,  till  she  had  been  well  jilted  two  or 
three  times,  to  take  the  spirit  out  of  her  ;  but  that  catas- 
trophe had  not  yet  occurred,  and  Miss  Valencia  still  reigned 
"  triumphant  and  alone,"  though  her  aunt,  old  Lady  Knock- 
down, moved  all  the  earth,  and  some  dirty  places,  too, 
below  the  earth,  to  get  the  wild  Irish  girl  off  her  hands  ; 
"  for,"  quoth  she,  "  I  feel  with  Valencia,  indeed,  just  like 
one  of  those  men  who  carry  about  little  dogs  in  the  Quad- 
rant. I  always  pity  the  poor  men  so,  and  think  how  happy 
they  must  be  when  they  have  sold  one.  It  is  one  less 
chance,  you  know,  of  having  it  bite  them  horribly,  and  then 
run  away,  after  all." 

There  was,  however,  no  more  real  harm  in  Valencia  than 
there  is  in  every  child  of  Adam.  Town  frivolity  had  not 
corrupted  her.  She  was  giddy,  given  up  to  enjoyment  of 
the  present ;  but  there  was  not  a  touch  of  meanness  about 
her  ;  and  if  she  was  selfish,  as  every  one  must  needs  be 
whose  thoughts  are  of  pleasure,  admiration,  and  success, 
she  was  so  unintentionally  ;  and  she  would  have  been 
shocked  and  pained  at  being  told  that  she  was  anything  but 
the  most  kind-hearted  and  generous  creature  on  earth. 
Major  Campbell,  who  was  her  Mentor  as  well  as  her  broth- 
er's, had  certainly  told  her  so  more  than  once  ;  at  which  she 
had  pouted  a  good  deal,  and  cried  a  little,  and  promised  to 
amend  ;  then  packed  up  a  heap  of  cast-off  things  to  send  to 
Lucia  —  half  of  it  much  too  fine  to  be  of  any  use  to  the 
quiet  little  woman  ;  and,  lastly,  gone  out  and  bought  fresh 
finery  for  herself,  and  forgot  all  her  good  resolutions.  Where- 
by it  befell  that  she  was  tolerably  deep  in  debt  at  the  end 
of  every  season,  and  had  to  torment  and  kiss  Scoutbush 
into  paying  her  bills  ;  which  he  did,  like  a  good  brother,  and 
often  before  he  had  paid  his  own. 

But  howsoever  full  Valencia's  head  may  have  been  of  fine 
garments  and  London  flirtations,  she  had  too  much  tact  and 
good  feeling  to  talk  that  evening  of  a  world  of  which  even 
Elsley  knew  more  than  her  sister.  For  poor  Lucia  had  been 
but  eighteen  at  the  time  of  her  escapade,  and  had  not  been 
presented  twelve  months;  so  that  she  was  as  "inexperi 
enced  "  as  any  one  can  be,  who  has  only  a  husband,  three  chil 
dren,  and  a  household  to  manage  on  less  than  three  hundred  a 
year.  Therefore  Valencia  talked  only  of  things  which  wuuld 
interest  Elsley  ;  asked  him  to  read  his  last  new  poem,  — 


212  l'homme  incompris. 

which,  I  need  not  say,  he  did  ;  told  him  how  she  devoured 
everything'  he  wrote  ;  planned  walks  with  him  in  the  coun- 
try ;  seemed  to  consult  his  pleasure  in  every  way. 

"  To-morrow  morning  I   shall  sit  with  you  and  the  chil 
dren,  J  'icia  ;  of  course  I  must  not  interrupt  Mr.  Vavasour  ; 
but  really  in  the  afternoon  I  must  ask  him  to  spare  a  couple 
of  hours  from  the  Muses." 

Vavasour  was  delighted  to  do  anything  —  "  Where  would 
Bbe  walk  ?  " 

"  Where?  Of  course  to  see  the  beautiful  schoolmistress 
who  saved  the  man  from  drowning  ;  and  then  to  see  the 
chasm  across  which  he  was  swept.  1  shall  understand 
your  poem  so  much  better,  you  know,  if  1  can  but  realizu 
the  people  and  the  place.  And  you  must  take  me  to  see 
Captain  Willis,  too,  and  even  tlie  lieutenant, — if  he  does 
not  smell  too  much  of  brandy.  1  will  be  so  gracious  and 
civil,  quite  the  lady  of  the  castle." 

"  You  will  make  quite  a  royal  progress,"  said  Lucia, 
looking  at  her  with  sisterly  admiration. 

"  Yes,  I  intend  to  usurp  as  many  of  Scoutbush's  honors 
as  I  can  till  he  comes.  I  must  lay  down  the  sceptre  in  a 
fortnight,  you  know,  so  I  shall  make  as  much  use  of  it  as  I 
can  meanwhile." 

And  so  on,  and  so  on  ;  meaning  all  the  while  to  put  Els- 
ley  quite  at  his  ease,  and  let  him  understand  tliat  bygones 
were  bygones,  and  that  with  her  any  reconciliation  at  all 
was  meant  to  be  a  complete  one  ;  which  was  wise  and  right 
enough.  But  Valencia  had  not  counted  on  the  excitable 
and  vain  nature  with  whicli  she  was  dealing  ;  and  Lucia, 
who  had  her  own  fears  from  the  first  evening,  was  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  tell  her  of  it ;  first  from  pride  in  her- 
self, and  then  from  pride  in  her  husband.  For  even  if  a 
woman  has  made  a  foolish  match,  it  is  hard  to  expect  her 
to  confess  as  much  ;  and,  after  all,  a  husband  is  a  husband, 
and,  let  his  faults  be  what  they  might,  he  was  still  her  Els- 
ley  ;  her  idol  once,  and  perhaps  (so  she  hoped)  her  idol 
agaii.  hereafter  ;  and,  if  not,  still  he  was  her  husband,  and 
that  was  enough. 

"  By  whicli  you  mean,  sir,  that  she  considered  herself 
bound  to  endure  everything  and  anything  from  him,  simply 
because  she  had  been  married  to  him  in  church  ?  " 

Yes,  and  a  great  deal  more.  Not  merely  being  mari'ied 
in  chui-ch,  but  what  l>eing  married  in  church  means,  and 
what  every  woman,  who  is  a  woman,  understands,  and  lives 
up  to  without  flinching,  though  she  die  a  martyr  for  it,  or  a 


l'homme  incompris.  213 

confessor  ;  a  far  liigher  saint,  if  the  truth  ^as  known,  as  it 
will  be  some  day,  than  all  the  holy  virgins  who  ever  fasted 
and  prayed  in  a  convent  since  the  days  when  Macarius  first 
turned  fakeer.  For,  to  a  true  woman,  the  mere  fact  of  a 
man's  being-  her  husband,  put  it  on  the  lowest  ground  that 
you  choose,  is  utterly  sacred,  divine,  all-powerful ;  in  the 
might  of  which  she  can  conquer  self  in  a  way  which  is  an 
every-day  miracle  ;  and  the  man  who  does  not  feel  about 
the  mere  fact  of  a  woman's  having  given  herself  utterly  to 
him,  just  what  she  herself  feels  about  it,  ought  to  be  de- 
spised 'by  all  his  fellows,  were  it  not  that,  in  that  case,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  despise  more  human  beings  than  is 
safe  for  the  soul  of  any  man. 

That  fortnight  was  the  sunniest  which  Elsley  had  passed 
since  he  made  secret  love  to  Lucia  in  Eaton  Square.  Ro- 
mantic walks,  the  company  of  a  beautiful  woman  as  ready 
to  listen  as  she  was  to  talk,  free  license  to  pour  out  all  his 
fancies,  sure  of  admiration,  if  not  of  flattery,  and  pardona- 
bly satisfied  vanity, —  all  these  are  comfortable  things  for 
most  men,  who  have  nothing  better  to  comfort  them.  But, 
on  the  whole,  this  feast  did  not  make  Elsley  a  better  or 
wiser  man  at  home.  Why  should  it  ?  Is  a  boy's  digestion 
improved  by  turning  him  loose  into  a  confectioner's  shop  ? 
And  thus  the  contrast  between  what  he  chose  to  call 
Valencia's  sympathy  and  Lucia's  want  of  sympathy,  made 
him,  unfortunately,  all  the  more  cross  to  her  when  they 
were  alone  ;  and  who  could  blame  the  poor  little  woman  for 
saying  one  night,  angrily  enough  : 

"  Ah,  yes  !  Valencia  !  Valencia  is  imaginative  ;  Valencia 
understands  you  ;  Valencia  sympathizes  ;  Valencia  thinks 
....  Valencia  has  no  children  to  wash  and  dress,  no  ac- 
counts to  keep,  no  linen  to  mend  ;  Valencia's  back  docs  not 
ache  all  day  long,  so  that  she  would  be  glad  enough  to  lie 
on  the  sofa  from  morning  till  night,  if  she  was  not  forced  to 
work  whether  she  can  work  or  not.  No,  no  ;  don't  kiss 
me,  for  kisses  will  not  make  up  for  injustice,  Elsley.  I  only 
trust  that  you  will  not  tempt  me  to  hate  my  own  sister. 
No,  don't  talk  to  me  now  ;  let  me  sleep,  if  I  can  sleep  ;  and 
go  and  walk  and  talk  sentiment  with  Valencia  to-morrow, 
and  leave  the  poor  little  brood  hen  to  sit  on  her  nest,  and 
be  despised."  And,  refusing  all  Elsley's  entreaties  foi 
pardon,  she  sulked  herself  to  sleep. 

Who  can  blame  her?  If  there  is  one  thing  more  provok- 
ing than  another  to  a  woman,  it  is  to  see  her  husband 
Slrass-engel,  Haus-teufel,   an   angel   of  coui'tesy  to   every 


214  l'homme  incompris. 

woman  but  herself;  to  see  liim  in  society  all  smiles  ana 
good  stories,  the  most  amiable  and  self-restraining  of  men 
—  perhaps  to  be  complimented  on  his  agreeableness  ;  and 
to  know  all  tlie  while  that  he  is  penning  up  all  the  accurnu 
lated  ill-temper  of  the  day,  to  let  it  out  on  her  when  they 
get  home  ;  perhaps  in  the  very  carriage,  as  soon  as  it 
leaves  the  door.  Hypocrites  that  you  are,  some  of  you 
gentlemen  !  Wliy  cannot  the  act  against  cruelty  to  women, 
corporal  punishment  included,  be  brought  to  bear  on  such 
as  you  ?  And  yet,  after  all,  you  are  not  most  to  blame  in 
tlie  matter ;  Eve  herself  tempts  you,  as  at  the  beginning ; 
for  who  does  not  know  that  the  man  is  a  thousand  times 
vainer  than  the  woman  ?  lie  does  but  follow  the  analogy 
of  all  nature.  Look  at  the  red  Indian,  in  that  blisslul  state 
of  nature  from  wliich  (so  pliilosophers  inform  those  wlio 
choose  to  believe  them)  we  all  sprung.  Which  is  the 
boaster,  the  strutter,  the  bedizener  of  his  sinful  carcass 
with  feathers  and  beads,  fox-tails  and  bears' claws  —  the 
brave,  or  his  poor  little  squaw  ?  An  Australian  settler's 
wife  bestows  on  some  poor  slaving  gin  a  cast-off  French 
bonnet ;  before  she  has  gone  a  hundred  yards,  her  husband 
snatches  it  oft",  puts  it  on  his  own  mop,  quiets  her  for  its 
loss  with  a  tap  of  the  waddie,  and  struts  on  in  glory.  Why 
not?  Has  he  not  the  analogy  of  all  nature  on  his  side? 
Have  not  the  male  birds,  and  the  male  moths,  the  fine 
feathers,  while  the  females  go  soberly  about  in  drab  and 
brown  ?  Does  the  lioness,  or  the  lion,  rejoice  in  the  gran- 
deur of  a  mane  ;  the  hind,  or  the  stag,  in  antlered  pride  ? 
How  know  we  but  that,  in  some  more  perfect  and  natui-al 
state  of  society,  the  women  will  dress  like  so  many  Quaker 
esses  ;  while  the  frippery  shops  will  become  the  haunts  ol 
men  alone,  and  "  browclies,  pearls,  and  owches  "  be  conse- 
crate to  the  nobler  sex  ?  There  are  signs  already,  in  the 
dress  of  our  young  gentlemen,  of  such  a  return  to  tlie  law 
of  nature  from  tlie  present  absurd  state  of  things,  in  which 
the  human  pea-hens  carry  about  the  gaudy  trains  which  are 
the  peacocks'  right. 

For  there  is  a  secret  feeling  in  woman's  heart  that  she  is  in 
her  wrong  place  ;  that  it  is  she  who  ought  to  worship  the 
man,  and  not  the  man  her  ;  and  when  she  becomes  properly 
conscious  of  her  destiny,  has  not  he  a  right  to  be  conscious 
of  his  ?  If  the  gray  hens  will  stand  round  in  the  mire  cluck- 
ing humble  admiration,  who  can  blame  the  old  blackcock  for 
dancing  and  drumming  on  the  top  of  a  moss  hag,  with 
outspread  wings  and  flirting  tail,  glorious  and  self-glorify- 


l'homme  incompris.  21.': 

ing  ?  He  is  a  splendid  fellow,  and  he  was  made  splendid  foj 
some  purpose,  surely  !  Why  did  nature  give  him  his  steel 
blue  coat,  and  his  crimson  crest,  but  for  the  very  same  pur- 
pose that  she  gave  Mr.  A***  his  intellect — to  be  admired 
by  the  other  sex  ?  And  if  young  damsels,  overflowing  with 
sentiment  and  Ruskinism,  will  crowd  round  him,  ask  his 
opinion  of  this  book  and  that  picture,  treasure  his  bon 
mots,  beg  for  his  autograph,  looking  all  the  while  the  praise 
which  they  do  not  speak  (though  they  speak  a  good  deal 
of  it),  and  when  they  go  home  write  letters  to  him  on  mat- 
ters about  which  in  old  times  girls  used  to  ask  only  their 
mothers  ;  who  can  blame  him  if  he  finds  the  little  wife  at 
home  a  very  uninteresting  body,  whose  head  is  so  full  of 
petty  cares  and  gossip,  that  he  and  all  his  talents  are  quite 
unappreciated  ?  Les  femmes  incomprises  of  France  used  to 
(perhaps  do  now)  form  a  class  of  married  ladies  whose  sor- 
rows were  especially  dear  to  the  novelist,  male  or  female  ; 
but  what  are  their  woes,  compared  to  those  of  l'homme 
incompria?  What  higher  vocation  for  a  young  maiden 
than  to  comfort  the  martyr  during  his  agonies  ?  And,  most 
of  all,  where  the  suflerer  is  not  merely  a  genius,  but  a 
saint ;  persecuted,  perhaps,  abroad  by  vulgar  tradesmen 
and  Philistine  bishops,  and  snubbed  at  home  by  a  stupid 
wife,  who  is  quite  unable  to  appreciate  his  magnificent 
projects  for  regenerating  all  heaven  and  earth  ;  and  only, 
humdrum,  practical  creature  that  she  is,  tries  to  do  justly, 
and  love  mercy,  and  walk  humbly  with  her  God  ?  Fly  to 
his  help,  all  pious  maidens,  and  pour  into  the  wounded 
heart  of  the  holy  man  the  healing  balm  of  self-conceit ; 
cover  his  table  with  confidential  letters,  choose  him  as  your 
father-confessor,  and  lock  yourself  up  alone  with  him  for  an 
hour  or  two  every  week,  while  the  wife  is  mending  his 
shirts  up  stairs.  True,  you  may  break  the  stupid  wife's 
heart  by  year-long  misery,  as  she  slaves  on,  bearing  tlie 
burden  and  heat  of  tlie  day,  of  which  you  never  dream  ; 
keeping  the  wretched  man,  by  her  unassuming  good  exam- 
ple, from  making  a  fool  of  himself  three  times  a  week  ;  and 
sowing  the  seed  of  which  you  steal  the  fruit.  What  mat- 
ter ?  If  your  immortal  soul  requires  it,  what  matter  what 
it  ccJfets  her  carnal  heart  ?  She  will  suffer  in  silence  ;  at 
least,  she  will  not  tell  you.  You  think  she  does  not  under 
stand  you.  Well ;  and  she  thinks,  in  return,  that  you  do 
not  understand  her,  and  her  married  joys  and  sorrows,  and 
her  five  children,  and  her  butcher's  bills,  and  her  long 
agony  of  fear  for  her  husband,  of  whom  she  is  ten  times 


216  l'homme  ixcompris. 

more  proud  than  you  could  be  ;  for  whom  she  has  slaved  foi 
years  ;  whose  defects  she  has  tried  to  cure,  while  she  cured 
her  own  :  for  whom  she  would  die  to-morrow,  did  heiall  into 
diso-race,  when  you  had  flounced  ofl'  to  lind  some  new  idol  :  — 
and  so  she  will  not  tell  you  :  and  what  the  ear  heareth  not, 
that  the  heart  g-rieveth  not.  —  Go  on  and  prosper!  You 
may,  too,  ruin  the  man's  spiritual  state  by  vanity  :  you  may 
pamper  his  discontent  with  the  place  where  God  has  put 
him,  till  he  ends  by  flying-  off  to  "  some  purer  communion," 
and  taking  you  with  him.  Never  mind.  He  is  a  most 
delightful  person,  and  his  intercourse  is  so  improving! 
Why  were  sweet  things  made,  but  to  be  eaten  ?  Go  on  and 
prosper ! 

Ah  !  young  ladies,  if  some  people  had  (as  it  is  perhaps 
well  lor  them  that  they  have  not)  the  ordering  of  this  same 
British  nation,  they  would  certainly  follow  your  example, 
and  try  to  restore  various  ancient  institutions.  And  first 
among  them  would  be  that  very  ancient  institution  of  the 
cucking-stool ;  to  be  employed,  however,  not  as  of  old, 
against  married  scolds  (for  whom  those  who  have  been 
behind  the  scenes  have  all  respect  and  sympathy),  but 
against  unmarried  prophetesses,  who,  under  whatsoever 
high  pretence  of  art  or  religion,  flirt  with  their  neighbors' 
husbands,  be  they  parson  or  poet. 

Not,  be  it  understood,  that  Valencia  had  the  least  sus- 
picion that  Elsley  considered  himself  "  incompris."  If  he 
had  hinted  the  notion  to  her,  she  would  have  resented  it  as 
an  insult  to  the  St.  Justs  in  general,  and  to  her  sister  in 
particular,  and  would  have  said  something  to  him  in  her 
off-hand  way,  the  like  whereof  he  had  seldom  heard,  even 
from  adverse  reviewers. 

Elsley  himself  soon  divined  enough  of  her  character  to 
see  that  he  most  keep  his  sorrows  to  himself,  if  he  wished 
for  Valencia's  good  opinion;  and  soon  —  so  easily  does  a 
vain  man  lend  himself  to  meanness  —  he  found  himself  try- 
ing to  please  Valencia,  by  praising  to  her  the  very  woman 
with  whom  he  was  discontented.  He  felt  shocked  and 
ashamed  when  first  his  own  baseness  flashed  across  him  ; 
but  the  bait  was  too  pleasant  to  be  left  easily ;  and,  after 
%  '  he  was  trying  to  say  to  his  guest  what  he  kneW  his 
guest  would  like  ;  and  what  was  that  but  following  those 
very  rules  of  good  society,  for  breaking  which  Lucia  was 
always  calling  him  gauche  and  morose  ?  So  he  actually 
quieted  his  own  conscience  by  the  fancy  that  he  was  bound 
to  be  civil,  and  to  keep  up  appearances,  "  even  for  Lucia's 


l'homme  incompeis.  217 

Bake,"  said  the  self-deceiver  to  himself.  And  thus  the 
mischief  was  done  ;  and  the  breach  between  Lucia  and  her 
husband,  which  had  been  somewhat  bridged  over  during 
the  last  month  or  two,  opened  more  wide  than  ever,  with- 
out a  suspicion  on  Valencia's  part  that  she  was  doing  all 
she  could  to  break  her  sister's  heart. 

She,  meanwhile,  had  plenty  of  reasons  which  justified  her 
new  intimacy  to  herself.  How  could  she  better  please 
L"i.icia  ?  How  better  show  that  bygones  were  to  be  by- 
gones, and  that  Elsley  was  henceforth  to  be  considered  as 
one  of  the  family,  than  by  being  as  intimate  as  possible 
with  him  ?  What  matter  how  intimate  ?  For,  after  all,  he 
was  only  a  brother,  and  she  his  sister. 

She  had  law  on  her  side  in  that  last  argument,  as  well 
as  love  of  amusement.  Whether  she  had  either  common 
sense  or  Scripture,  is  a  very  difterent  question. 

Poor  Lucia,  too,  tried  to  make  the  best  of  the  matter ; 
and  to  take  the  new  intimacy  as  Valencia  would  have  had 
her  take  it,  in  tlie  light  of  a  compliment  to  herself;  and  so, 
in  her  pride,  she  said  to  Valencia,  and  told  her  that  she 
should  love  her  forever  for  her  kindness  to  Elsley,  while 
her  heart  was  ready  to  burst. 

But  ere  the  fortnight  was  over  the  Nemesis  had  come, 
and  Lucia,  woman  as  she  was,  could  not  repress  a  thrill  of 
malicious  joy,  even  though  Elsley  became  more  intolerable 
than  ever  at  the  change. 

What  was  the  Nemesis,  then  ? 

Simply  that  this  naughty  Miss  St.  Just  began  to  smile 
upon  Frank  Headley,  the  curate,  even  as  she  had  smiled 
upon  Elsley  Vavasour. 

It  was  very  naughty  ;  but  she  had  her  excuses.  She 
had  found  Elsley  out ;  and  it  was  well  for  both  of  them  that 
she  had  done  so.  Already,  upon  the  strength  of  their  sup- 
posed relationship,  she  had  allowed  him  to  talk  a  great  deal 
more  nonsense  to  her,  —  harmless,  perhaps,  but  nonsense 
still,  —  than  she  would  have  listened  to  from  any  other 
man  ;  and  it  was  well  for  both  of  them  that  Elsley  was  a 
man  without  self-control,  who  began  to  show  the  weak  side 
of  his  character  freely  enough,  as  soon  as  he  became  at  his 
ease  with  his  companion,  and  excited  by  conversation. 
Valencia  quickly  saw  that  he  was  vain  as  a  peacock,  and 
weak  enough  to  be  led  by  her  in  any  and  every  direction, 
when  she  chose  to  work  on  his  vanity.  And  she  despised 
him  accordingly,  and  suspected,  too,  that  her  sister  could 
not  be  very  happy  with  such  a  man 
19 


218  L'HOMME   INCOMPRIS. 

None  are  more  quick  than  sisters-in-law  to  see  f:\mt8  in 
the  brother-iii-huv,  vvlien  once  they  have  beg-un  to  looi<;  for 
them  ;  and  Valencia  soon  remarked  that  Elsley  showed 
Lucia  no  petits  soins,  while  he  was  ready  enough  to  show 
them  to  her  ;  that  he  took  no  real  trouble  about  his  cliildren, 
or  about  anything  else  ;  and  twenty  more  faults,  which  she 
might  have  perceived  in  the  first  two  days  of  her  visit,  if 
slie  had  not  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  amuse  herself.  But 
Khe  was  too  delicate  to  ask  Lucia  the  truth,  and  contented 
herself  with  watching  all  parties  closely,  and  in  amusing 
herself  meanwhile  —  for  amusement  she  must  have  —  in 

"  Breaking  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  she  went  to  town." 

•  She  had  met  Frank  several  times  about  the  parish  and  in 
the  schools,  and  had  been  struck  at  once  with  his  grace  and 
high-breeding,  and  with  that  air  of  melancholy  which  is 
always  interesting  in  a  true  woman's  eyes.  She  had  seen, 
too,  that  Elsley  tried  to  avoid  him,  naturally  enough  not 
wishing  an  intrusion  on  their  pleasant  tetes-a-tete.  Whereon, 
half  to  spite  Elsley,  and  half  to  show  her  own  right  to  chat 
with  whom  she  chose,  she  made  Lucia  ask  Frank  to  tea  ; 
and  next  contrived  to  go  to  the  school  when  he  was  teach- 
ing there,  and  to  make  Elsley  ask  him  to  walk  with  them  ; 
and  all  the  more,  because  she  had  discovered  that  Elsley 
had  discontinued  his  walks  with  Frank,  as  soon  as  she  had 
appeared  at  Penalva. 

Lucia  was  not  sorry  to  countenance  her  in  her  naughti- 
ness ;  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to  have  a  fourth  person  in  the 
room  at  times,  and  thus  to  compel  Elsley  and  Valencia  to 
think  of  something  beside  each  other  ;  and  when  she  saw 
her  sister  gradually  transferring  her  favors  from  the  married 
to  the  unmarried  victim,  she  would  have  been  more  than 
woman  if  she  had  not  rejoiced  thereat.  Only,  she  began 
soon  to  be  afraid  for  Frank,  and  at  last  told  Valencia  so. 

"Do  take  care  that  you  do  not  break  his  heart !  " 

"My  dear  I  You  forget  that  I  sit  under  Mr.  0'Blare« 
away,  and  am  to  him  as  a  heathen  and  a  publican.  Fresb 
from  St.  Neporauc's  as  he  is,  he  would  as  soon  think  of 
falling  in  love  with  an  '  Oirish  Prodestant,'  as  with  a  malig- 
nant and  a  turbaned  Turk.  Besides,  my  dear,  if  the  mis 
chief  is  going  to  be  done,  it's  done  already." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,  you  naughty  beautiful  thing  1  If  any 
Dody  is  goose  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  you,  he  '11  be  also 


l'homme  incompris.  219 

goose  enough,  I  don't  doubt,  to  do  so  at  first  sight.  There, 
don't  look  perpetually  in  that  glass  ;  but  take  care  !  " 

"What  use?  If  it  is  going  to  happen  at  all,  I  say, 
it  has  happened  already  ;  so  1  shall  just  please  myself,  as 
usual." 

And  it  had  happened  ;  and  poor  Frank  had  been,  ever 
since  the  first  day  he  saw  Valencia,  over  head  and  ears  in 
love.  His  time  had  come,  and  there  was  no  escaping  his 
fate. 

But  to  escape  he  tried.  Convinced,  with  many  good  men 
of  all  ages  and  creeds,  that  a  celibate  life  was  the  fittest  one 
for  a  clergyman,  he  had  fled  from  St.  Neporauc's  into  the 
wilderness  to  avoid  temptation,  and  beheld  at  his  cell-door 
a  fairer  fiend  than  ever  came  to  St.  Dunstan.  A  fairer 
fiend,  no  doubt ;  for  St.  Dunstan's  imagination  created  his 
temptress  for  him,  but  Valencia  was  a  reality  ;  and  fact  and 
nature  may  be  safely  backed  to  produce  something  more 
charming  than  any  monk's  brain  can  do.  One  questions 
whether  St.  Dunstan's  apparition  was  not  something  as 
coarse  as  his  own  mind,  clever  though  that  mind  was.  At 
least,  he  would  never  have  had  the  heart  to  apply  the  hot 
tongs  to  such  a  nose  as  Valencia's,  but  at  most  have  bowed 
her  out  pityingly,  as  Frank  tried  to  bow  out  Valencia  from 
the  sacred  place  of  his  heart,  but  failed. 

Hard  he  tried,  and  humbly  too.  He  had  no  proud  con- 
tempt for  married  parsons.  He  was  ready  enough  to  con- 
fess that  he,  too,  might  be  weak  in  that  respect,  as  in  a 
hundred  others.  He  conceived  that  he  had  no  reason,  from 
his  own  inner  life,  to  believe  himself  worthy  of  any  higher 
vocation  —  proving  his  own  real  nobleness  of  soul  by  that 
very  humility.  He  had  rather  not  marry.  He  might  do  so 
some  day  ;  but  he  would  sacrifice  much  to  avoid  the  neces- 
sity. If  he  was  weak,  he  would  use  what  strength  he  had 
to  the  uttermost  ere  he  yielded.  And  all  the  more,  because 
he  felt,  and  reasonably  enough,  that  Valencia  was  the  last 
woman  in  the  world  to  make  a  parson's  wife.  He  had  his 
ideal  of  what  such  a  wife  should  be,  if  she  were  to  be  allowed 
to  exist  at  all  —  the  same  ideal  which  Mr.  Paget  has  draw^n 
in  his  charming  little  book  (would  that  all  parsons'  wives 
would  read  and  perpend  !),  the  "  Owlet  of  Owlstone  Edge." 
But  Valencia  would  surely  not  make  a  Beatrice.  Beautiful 
Bhe  was,  glorious,  lovable,  but  not  the  helpmeet  whom  he 
needed.  And  he  fought  against  the  new  dream  like  a  brave 
man.  He  fasted,  he  wept,  he  prayed  ;  but  his  prayers 
seemed  not  to  be  heard.    Valencia  seemed  to  have  enthrones 


220  l'homme  ixcompris. 

herself,  a  true  Venus  victrix,  in  the  centre  of  his  heart,  and 
ft'ould  ndt  be  dispossessed.  lie  tried  to  avoid  seeing  her  ; 
but  eveii  for  that  he  had  not  strength  ;  he  weiit  again  and 
again  when  asked,  only  to  come  home  more  miserable  each 
time,  as  fierce  against  himself  and  his  own  weakness  as  if  he 
had  given  way  to  wine  or  to  oaths.  In  vain,  too,  he  repre- 
Bente:  to  himself  the  ridiculous  hopelessness  of  his  passion  ; 
the  impossibility  of  the  London  beauty  ever  stooping  to 
marry  the  poor  country  curate.  Fancies  would  come  in, 
how  such  things,  strange  as  they  might  seem,  had  happened 
already,  might  happen  again.  It  was  a  class  of  marriages 
for  which  he  had  alwaj's  felt  a  strong  dislike,  even  suspicion 
and  contempt ;  and  though  he  was  far  more  fitted,  in  familj' 
as  well  as?  personal  excellence,  for  such  a  match,  than  three 
out  of  four  wlio  make  them,  yet  he  shrunk  with  disgust  froru 
the  notion  of  being  himself  classed  at  last  among  the  match- 
making parsons.  Whether  there  was  "  carnal  pride  "  or 
not  in  that  last  thought,  his  soul  so  loathed  it,  that  he  would 
gladly  have  thrown  up  his  cure  at  Aberalva  ;  and  would 
have  done  so  actually,  but  for  -one  word  which  Tom  Thur- 
nall  had  spoken  to  him,  and  that  was  —  cholera. 

That  the  cholera  might  come  —  that  it  probably  would 
come,  in  the  course  of  the  next  two  months,  was  news  to 
him  which  was  enough  to  keep  him  at  his  post,  let  what 
would  be  the  consequence.  And  gradually  he  began  to 
Bee  a  way  out  of  his  difficulty,  and  a  very  simple  one  ; 
and  that  was,  to  die. 

"  That  is  the  solution,  after  all,"  said  he.  "  I  am  not  strong 
enough  for  God's  work  ;  but  I  will  not  shrink  from  it  if 
I  can  help.  If  I  cannot  master  it,  let  it  kill  me  :  so  at  least 
I  may  have  peace.  I  have  failed  utterly  here  ;  all  my  grand 
plans  have  crumbled  to  ashes  between  my  fingers.  1  find 
njj'^self  a  cumberer  of  the  ground,  where  I  fancied  that  I 
was  going  forth  like  a  very  Michael  —  fool  that  I  was  !  — 
leader  of  the  armies  of  heaven.  And  now,  in  the  one  re- 
maining point  on  which  I  thought  myself  strong,  1  find 
myself  weakest  of  all.  Useless  and  helpless!  I  have  one 
chance  left,  one  chance  to  show  these  poor  souls  that  I 
really  love  them,  really  wish  their  good  —  selfish  that  "',  am  ! 
What  matter  whether  I  do  show  it  or  not  ?  What  need  to 
justify  myself  to  them  ?  Self,  self,  creeping  in  everywhere  ! 
I  shall  begin  next,  I  suppose,  longing  for  the  cholera  to 
come,  that  I  may  show  ofi"  myself  in  it,  and  make  spiritual 
capital  out  of  their  dying  agonies  !  Ah  me  !  that  it  were 
all  over !     That  this  cholera,  if  it  is  to  come,  would  wipe 


L  HOMME    INCOMPRTS.  221 

out  of  this  head  what  I  verily  beh'eve  nothing  bul  death 
will  do  !  "  And  therewith  Frank  laid  his  head  on  the  table, 
and  cried  till  he  could  cry  no  more. 

It  was  not  over  manly  ;  but  he  was  weakened  with  over- 
work and  sorrow  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  it  was,  perhaps,  the 
best  thing  he  could  do  ;  for  he  fell  asleep  there,  with  nig 
head  on  the  table,  and  did  not  wake  till  the  dawn  blazed 
through  his  open  window. 
19* 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE   DOCTOE   AT   BAY. 

Did  you  ever,  in  a  feverish  dream,  climb  a  mountaiL 
which  grew  higher  and  higher  as  you  climbed  ;  and  scram- 
ble through  passages  which  changed  perpetually  before 
you,  and  up  and  down  break-neck  stairs  which  broke  off 
perpetually  behind  you  ?  Did  you  ever  spend  the  whole 
night,  foot  in  stirrup,  mounting  that  phantom  hunter  which 
never  gets  mounted,  or  if  he  does,  turns  into  a  pen  between 
your  knees  ;  or  in  going  to  fish  that  phantom  stream  which 
never  gets  fished  ?  Did  you  ever,  late  for  that  mysterious 
dinner-party  in  some  enchanted  castle,  wander  disconso- 
lately, in  unaccountable  rags  and  dirt,  in  search  of  that 
phantom  carpet-bag  which  never  gets  found  ?  Did  you 
ever  "  realize  "  to  yourself  the  sieve  of  the  Danaides,  the 
stone  of  Sisyphus,  the  wheel  of  Ixion  ;  the  pleasure  of 
shearing  that  domestic  animal  who  (according  to  the  expe- 
rience of  a  very  ancient  observer  of  nature)  produces  more 
cry  than  wool ;  the  perambulation  of  that  Irishman's  model 
bog,  where  you  slip  two  steps  backward  for  one  forward, 
and  must,  therefore,  in  order  to  progress  at  all,  turn  your 
face  homeward,  and  progress  as  a  pig  does  into  a  steamer, 
by  going  the  opposite  way  ?  Were  you  ever  condemned 
to  spin  ropes  of  sand  to  all  eternity,  like  Tregeagle  the 
wrecker ;  or  to  extract  the  cube  roots  of  a  million  or  two 
of  hopeless  surds,  like  the  mad  mathematician  ;  or,  last, 
and  worst  of  all,  to  work  the  Nuisances  Removal  Act  ? 
Then  3'ou  can  enter,  as  a  man  and  a  brother,  into  the  sor- 
rows of  Tom  Thurnall,  in  the  months  of  June  and  Julv, 
1854, 

He  had  made  up  his  mind,  for  certain  good  reasons  of  his 
own,  that  the  cholera  ought  to  visit  Aberalva  in  the  course 
of  the  summer ;  and,  of  course,  tried  his  best  to  persuade 
people  to  get  ready  for  their  ugly  visitor, — but  in  vain. 
The  cholera  come  there  ?  Why,  it  never  had  come  yet ; 
which  signified,  when  he  inquired  a  little  more  closely,  tha* 

cm) 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAT,  .  223 

there  had  been  only  one  or  two  doubtful  cases  in  ISSY,  and 
five  O'"  six  in  1849.  In  vain  he  answered,  "  Very  well ;  and 
is  not  that  a  pioof  that  the  causes  of  cholera  are  increasing 
here?  If  you  had  one  case  the  first  time,  and  iive  times  as 
many  the  next,  by  the  same  rule  you  will  have  five  times  as 
many  more  if  it  comes  this  summer." 

"  Nonsense  !  Aberalva  was  the  healthiest  town  on  the 
coast." 

"  Well,  but,"  would  Tom  say,  "  in  the  census  before  last 
yon  had  a  population  of  thirteen  hundred,  in  one  hundred 
and  twtdve  houses,  and  that  was  close-packing  enough,  in 
all  conscience  ;  and  in  the  last  census  I  find  you  had  a  pop- 
ulation cf  over  fourteen  hundred,  which  must  have  increased 
since  ;  and  there  are  eight  or  nine  old  houses  in  the  town 
pulled  down,  or  turned  into  stores;  so  you  are  more  closely 
packed  than  ever.  And  mind,  it  may  seem  no  very  great 
diiferenct.,  but  it  is  the  last  drop  fills  the  cup." 

What  Lad  that  to  do  with  cholera  ?  And  more  than  one 
gave  him  to  understand  that  he  must  be  either  a  very  silly 
or  a  very  impertinent  person,  to  go  poking  into  how  many 
houses  there  were  in  the  town,  and  how  many  people  lived 
in  each.  Tardrew,  the  steward,  indeed,  said  openly,  that 
Mr,  ThurnuU  was  making  disturbance  enough  in  people's 
property  up  at  Pentremochyn,  without  bothering  himself 
with  Aberalva  too.  He  had  no  opinion  of  people  who  had 
a  finger  in  everybody's  pie.  Whom  Tom  tried  to  soothe 
with  honey  jd  words,  knowing  him  to  be  of  the  original  Brit- 
ish bull-doj.;  breed,  which,  once  stroked  against  the  hair, 
shows  his  teeth  at  you  forever  afterwards. 

But  stanch  was  Tardrew,  unfortunately  on  the  wrong 
side  ;  and,  backed  by  the  collective  ignorance,  pride,  lazi- 
ness, and  superstition,  of  Aberalva,  showed  to  his  new 
assailant  that  terrible  front  of  stupidity,  against  which,  says 
Schiller,  "  the  gods  themselves  fight  in  vain." 

"  Does  he  think  we  was  all  fools  afore  he  came  here  ?  " 

That  was  the  rallying  cry  of  the  conservative  party,  wor- 
shippers of  Beelzebub,  god  of  flies,  and  of  that  (so  say 
Syrian  scholars)  from  which  flies  are  bred.  And,  indeed, 
there  were  excuses  for  them,  on  the  Yankee  ground  that 
"there's  a  deal  of  human  natur'  in  man."  It  is  hard  to 
human  nature  to  make  all  the  humiliating  confessions  which 
must  precede  sanitary  repentance  ;  to  say,  "  I  have  been  a 
very  nasty,  dirty  fellow.  I  have  lived  contented  in  evil 
smells,  till  I  care  for  them  no  more  than  my  pig  does.  I 
have  refused  to  understand  Nature's  broadest  bints,  tliat 


224  THE    DOCTOR   AT   BAY. 

anything  wliich  is  so  disagreaable  is  not  meant  to  be  left 
about.  I  have  probably  been  more  or  less  the  cause  of 
half  my  own  illnesses,  and  of  three-f(jurths  of  tlie  illness  of 
my  children  ;  for  artght  I  know,  it  is  very  much  my  fault 
that  my  own  baliy  lias  died  of  scarlatina,  and  two  or  three 
of  my  tenants  of  typhus.  No,  hang  it !  that 's  too  much  to 
make  any  man  confess  to  !  I  '11  prove  my  innocence  by 
not  reforming  !  "  So  sanitary  reform  is  thrust  out  of  sight, 
Bimply  because  its  necessity  is  too  humiliating  to  the  pride 
c^'all,  too  frightful  to  the  consciences  of  many. 

Tom  went  to  Trebooze, 

"  Mr.  Trebooze,  you  are  a  man  of  position  in  the  county, 
and  own  some  houses  in  Aberalva.  Don't  you  think  you 
could  use  your  influence  in  this  matter  ?  " 

"Own  some  houses?  yes;" — and  Mr.  Trebooze  con- 
signed the  said  cottages  to  a  variety  of  unmentionable  places  ; 
"  cost  me  more  in  rates  than  they  bring  in  in  rent,  even  if  I 
get  the  rent  paid.  I  should  like  to  get  a  six-pounder,  and 
blow  the  whole  lot  into  the  sea.  Cholera  coming,  eh  ? 
D'ye  think  it  will  be  there  before  Michaelmas  ? " 

"I  do." 

"  Pity  I  can't  clear  'em  out  before  Michaelmas.  Else  I  'd 
have  ejected  the  lot,  and  pulled  the  houses  down." 

"  I  think  something  should  be  done  meanwhile,  though, 
towards  cleansing  them." 

"  *  *  *  Let  'em  cleanse  themselves  !  Soap  's  cheap 
enough  with  your  *  *  *  free  trade,  an't  it?  No,  sir  I 
That  sort  of  talk  will  do  well  enough  for  my  Lord  Michamp- 
stead,  sir,  the  old  money-lending  Jew  I  *  *  *  but  gentle- 
men, sir,  gentlemen,  that  are  half  ruined  with  free  trade, 
and  your  Whig  policy,  sir  ;  you  must  give  'em  back  their 
rights  before  they  can  afford  to  throw  away  their  money  on 
cottages.  Cottages,  indeed  !  *  *  *  upstart  of  a  cotton- 
ppinner,  coming  down  here,  buying  the  land  over  our  heads, 
and  pretends  to  show  us  how  to  manage  our  estates  ;  old 
families  that  have  been  in  the  county  this  four  hundred 
years,  with  the  finest  peasantry  in  the  world  ready  to  die 
for  them,  sir,  till  these  new  revolutionary  doctrines  came  io 
■ — pride  and  purse-proud  conceit,  just  to  show  oil"  hia 
money  !  What  do  they  want  with  better  cottages  than 
tneir  fathers  had  ?  Only  put  notions  into  their  heads,  raise 
em  above  their  station  ;  more  they  have,  more  they  '1! 
want.  *  *  *  sir,  make  chartists  of  'em  all  before  he 's 
done  1  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  —  and  Mr.  Trebooze  at^ 
tempted  a  dignified  and  dogmatic  tone,  —  "I  never  told  it 


THE     DOCTOR    AT    BAY.  225 

you  before,  because  you  were  my  very  good  friend,  sir  ; 
but  my  opinion  is,  sir,  that  by  what  you  're  doing  up  at 
Pentremochyn,  you're  just  spreading  chartism  —  chartism, 
sir !  Of  course  I  know  nothing.  Of  course  I  'm  nobody, 
in  these  days  ;  but  that 's  my  opinion,  sir,  and  you  've 
got  it !  " 

By  which  motion  Tom  took  little.  Mighty  is  envy, 
always,  and  mighty  ignorance  ;  but  you  become  aware  of 
their  truly  Titanic  grandeur  only  when  you  attempt  to 
touch  their  owner's  pocket. 

Tom  tried  old  Healc  ;  but  took  as  little  in  that  quarter. 
Heale  had  heard  of  sanitary  reform,  of  course  ;  but  he 
knew  nothing  about  it,  and  gave  a  general  assent  to  Tom's 
doctrines,  for  fear  of  exposing  his  own  ignorance  :  acting  on 
them  was  a  very  different  matter.  It  is  always  hard  for  an 
old  medical  man  to  confess  that  anything  has  been  discov- 
ered since  the  days  of  his  youth  ;  and,  beside,  there  were 
other  reasons  behind,  which  Heale  tried  to  avoid  giving, 
and  therefore  fenced  off,  and  fenced  off,  till,  pressed  hard 
by  Tom,  wrath  came  forth,  and  truth  with  it. 

"  And  what  be  you  thinking  of,  sir,  to  expect  mo  to  offend 
all  my  best  patients  ?  and  not  one  of  'em  but  rents  some 
two  cottages,  some  a  dozen.  And  what '11  they  say  to  me 
if  I  go  a  routing  and  rookling  in  their  drains,  like  an  old 
sow  by  the  wayside,  beside  putting  'em  to  all  manner  of 
expense  ?  And  all  on  the  chance  of  this  cholera  coming, 
wliich  I  have  no  fiiith  in,  nor  in  this  new-fangled  sanitary 
reform  neither,  wliich  is  all  a  dodge  for  a  lot  of  young  gov- 
ernment puppies  to  fill  their  pockets,  and  rule  and  ride  over 
us  ;  and  my  opinion  always  was  with  the  Bible,  that  't  is 
jidgment,  sir,  a  jidgment  of  God,  and  we  can't  escape  hia 
holy  will,  and  that's  the  plain  truth  of  it." 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  that  latter  argument.  He  had 
lieard  that  "  'Tis  jidgment"  from  every  mouth  during  the 
last  few  days,  and  had  mortally  ofll'ended  the  Brianite 
preacher  that  very  morning,  by  answering  his  " 'Tis  jidg- 
ment"  with, 

"But,  my  good  sir!  the  Bible,  I  thought,  says  that 
Aaron  stayed  the  plague  among  the  Israelites,  and  David 
the  one  at  Jerusalem." 

"  Sir,  those  was  mira»cles,  sir  !  and  they  was  under  the 
law,  sir,  and  we  'm  under  the  gospel,  you  '11  be  pleased  to 
remember." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Tom  :  "  then,  by  your  showing,  they  were 
better  off  under  the  law  than  we  are  now,  if  they  could  have 


226  THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAT. 

their  plagues  stopped  by  miracles  ;  and  we  cannot  have  ouri 
stopped  at  all." 

"  Sir,  he  yon  an  infidel  ?  " 

To  which  there  was  no  answer  to  be  made. 

In  this  case,  Tom  answered  Ileale  with  — 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  don't  like  (as  is  reasonable 
enough)  to  take  the  responsibility  on  yourself,  why  not  go 
to  the  Board  of  Gruardians,  and  get  them  to  put  tlie  act  in 
force  ?" 

"  Boord,  sir ! —  and  do  you  know  so  little  of  boords  as 
that?  Why,  there  an't  one  of  them  but  owns  cottages 
themselves,  and  it's  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth  —  " 

"Your  place  as  medical  officer  is  just  worth  nothing,  as 
you  know.  You  'II  have  been  out  of  pocket  by  it  seven  oi 
eight  pounds  this  year,  even  if  no  cholera  comes." 

Tom  knew  the  whole  state  of  the  case  ;  but  he  liked  tor- 
menting Heale  now  and  then. 

"  Well,  sir,  but  if  I  get  turned  out  next  year,  in  steps 
that  Drew,  over  at  Carcarrow  Churchtown,  into  my  district, 
and  into  the  best  of  my  practice,  too.  I  wonder  what  sort 
of  a  poor  law  district  you  were  medical  officer  of,  if  you 
don't  know  yet  that  that 's  why  we  take  to  the  poor," 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  know  it,  and  a  good  deal  more  beside," 

"  Then  why  go  bothering  me  this  way  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  Tom,  "it's  pleasant  to  have  old  notionn 
confirmed  as  often  as  possible  — 

'  Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it ; 
I  thought  so  once,  but  now  I  know  it.' 

What  an  ass  that  fellow  must  have  been  who  had  that  put 
on  his  tombstone,  not  to  have  found  it  out  many  a  year 
before  he  died  1  " 

lie  went  next  to  Headley,  the  curate,  and  took  little  by 
that  move  ;  though  more  tlian  by  any  other. 

For  Frank  already  believed  his  doctrines,  as  an  educated 
London  parson  of  course  would  ;  was  shocked  to  hear  that 
they  were  likclj  to  become  fact  so  soon  and  so  fearfully 
oflered  to  do  all  he  could  ;  but  confessed  that  he  could  dt 
nothing. 

"  I  have  been  hinting  to  them,  ever  since  I  came,  improve- 
ments in  cleanliness,  in  ventilation,  and  so  forth  ;  but  I  have 
been  utterly  unheeded  ;  and  bully  me  as  you  will,  doctor, 
about  my  cramming  doctrines  down  their  throats,  and  roar- 
ing like  a  Pope's  bull,  I  assure  you  that,  on  sanitary  reform 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  227 

my  roaring  was  as  of  a  sucking  dove,  and  ought  to  have 
prevailed,  if  soft  persuasion  can." 

"  You  were  a  dove  where  you  ought  to  have  been  a  bull, 
and  a  bull  where  you  ought  to  be  a  dove.  But  roar  now, 
if  ever  you  roared,  in  the  pulpit  and  out.  Why  not  preacli 
to  them  on  it  next  Sunday  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  'd  give  a  lecture  gladly,  if  I  could  get  any  ono 
to  come  and  hear  it ;  but  that  you  could  do  better  than  me." 

'  I  '11  lecture  them  myself,  and  show  them  bogies,  if  my 
quarter-inch  will  do  its  work.  If  they  want  seeing  to 
believe,  see  they  shall  ;  I  have  half  a  dozen  specimens  of 
water  already  which  will  astonish  them.  Let  me  lecture  ; 
you  must  preach." 

"  You  must  know  that  there  is  a  feeling  —  you  would  call 
it  a  prejudice  —  against  introducing  such  purely  secular  sub- 
jects into  the  pulpit." 

Tom  gave  a  long  whistle. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Headley  ;  you  are  a  man  of  sense  ;  and 
I  can  speak  to  you  as  one  human  being  to  another,  which  I 
have  seldom  been  able  to  do  with  your  respected  cloth." 

"  Say  on  ;  I  shall  not  be  frightened." 

"  Well ;  don't  you  put  up  the  ten  commandments  in  your 
church  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  don't  one  of  them  run,  '  Thou  shalt  not  kill '  ?  " 

"Well." 

"  And  is  not  murder  a  moral  offence —  what  you  call  a 
sin  ?  " 

"  Sans  doute." 

"  If  you  saw  your  parishioners  in  the  habit  of  cutting 
each  other's  throats,  or  their  own,  shouldn't  you  think  that 
a  matter  spiritual  enough  to  be  a  fit  subject  for  a  little  of 
the  drum  ecclesiastic  ?  " 

"Well." 

"  Well  ?  Ill !  There  are  your  parishioners  about  to  com- 
mit wholesale  murder  and  suicide,  and  is  that  a  secular 
question  ?  If  they  don't  know  the  fact,  is  not  that  all  the 
more  reason  for  your  telling  them  of  it  ?  You  pound  away, 
as  I  warned  you  once,  at  the  sins  of  which  they  are  just  as 
well  aware  as  you  ;  why  on  earth  do  you  hold  your  tongue 
about  the  sins  of  which  they  are  not  aware  ?  You  tell  us 
every  Sunday  that  we  do  Heaven  only  knows  how  many 
more  wrong  things  than  we  dream  of.  Tell  it  us  again  now 
Don't  strain  at  gnats  like  want  of  iaith  and  resignation,  and 
swallow  such  ;t  camel  as  twenty  or  thirty  deaths.      It 's  no 


228  THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAT. 

concern  of  mine  ;  I've  seen  plenty  of  people  murdered,  and 
may  again  ;  I  am  accustomed  to  it;  but  if  it's  not  jour 
concern,  what  on  earth  you  are  here  for  is  more  than  1  can 
tell." 

"You  are  right,  you  are  right;  but  how  to  put  it  ou 
religious  grounds  —  " 

Tom  wliistled  again. 

"If  your  doctrines  cannot  be  made  to  fit  such  plain  mat 
ters  as  twenty  deaths,  tant  pis  pour  eux.  If  they  have 
nothing  to  say  on  such  scientific  facts,  why,  the  facts  must 
take  care  of  themselves,  and  the  doctrines  may,  for  aught  I 
care,  go  and —  But  I  won't  be  really  rude.  Only  think 
over  the  matter :  if  you  are  God's  minister,  you  ought  to 
have  something  to  say  about  God's  view  of  a  fact  which 
certainly  involves  the  lives  of  his  creatures,  not  by  twos 
and  threes,  but  by  tens  of  thousands." 

So  Frank  went  home,  and  thought  it  through  ;  and  went 
once  and  again  to  Thurnall,  and  condescended  to  ask  hia 
opinion  of  what  he  had  said,  and  whether  he  said  it  ill  or 
well.     What  Thurnall  answered  was  — 

"  Whether  that 's  sound  Church  doctrine  is  your  business  ; 
but,  if  it  be,  I  '11  say,  with  the  man  there  in  the  Acts  —  what 
was  his  name?  —  'Almost  thou  persuadest  me  to  be  a 
Christian.'  " 

"  Would  God  that  you  were  one  !  for  you  would  make  a 
right  good  one." 

"  Humph  !  at  least  you  see  what  you  can  do,  if  you  'II 
only  face  fiict  as  it  stands,  and  talk  about  the  realities  of 
life.  I  '11  puif  your  sermon  beforehand,  I  assure  you,  and 
bring  all  I  can  to  hear  it." 

So  Frank  preached  a  noble  sermon,  most  rational,  and 
most  spiritual  withal ;  but  he,  too,  like  his  tutor,  took  little 
by  his  motion. 

All  the  present  fruit  upon  which  he  had  to  congratulate 
himself  was,  that  the  Brianite  preacher  denounced  him  in 
chapel  next  Sunday  as  a  German  Rationalist,  who  impiously 
pretended  to  explain  away  the  Lord's  visitation  into  a  car- 
nal matter  of  drains,  and  pipes,  and  gases,  and  such  like  ; 
and  that  his  rival,  of  another  denomination,  who  was  a 
fanatic  on  the  teetotal  question,  denounced  him  as  bitterly 
for  supporting  the  cause  of  drunkenness,  by  attributing 
cholera  to  want  of  cleanliness,  while  all  rational  people  knew 
that  its  true  source  was  intemperance.  Poor  P'rank  !  he 
had  preached  against  drunkenness  many  a  time  and  oft ;  but 
because  he  would  not  add  a  Mohammedan  eleventh  com- 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  229 

mandmeat  to  those  ten  which  men  already  find  difficulty 
enough  in  keeping,  he  was  set  upon  at  once  by  a  fanatic 
whose  game  it  was  —  as  it  is  that  of  too  many  —  to  snub 
sanitary  reform,  and  hinder  the  spread  of  plain  scientific 
truth,  for  the  salie  of  pushing  their  own  nostrum  for  all 
human  ills. 

In  despair,  Tom  went  off  to  Elsley  Vavasour.  Would  he 
help  ?  Would  he  join,  as  one  of  two  householders,  in  mak- 
ing a  representation  to  the  proper  authorities  ? 

Elsley  had  never  mixed  in  local  matters  ;  and,  if  he  had, 
he  knew  nothing  of  how  to  manage  men,  or  to  read  an  Act 
of  Parliament  ;  so,  angry  as  Tom  was  inclined  to  be  with 
him,  he  found  it  useless  to  quarrel  with  a  man  so  utterly 
unpractical,  who  would,  probably,  had  he  been  stirred  into 
exertion,  have  done  more  harm  than  good. 

"  Only  come  with  me,  and  satisf}^  yourself  as  to  the  exist- 
ence of  one  of  these  nuisances,  and  then  you  will  have 
grounds  on  which  to  go,"  said  Tom,  who  had  still  hopes  of 
making  a  cat's-paw  of  Elsley,  and,  by  his  power  over  him, 
pulling  the  strings  from  behind. 

Sorely  against  his  will,  Elsley  went,  saw,  and  smelt ;  came 
home  again  :  was  very  unwell  ;  and  was  visited  nightly  for 
a  week  after  by  that  most  disgusting  of  all  phantoms,  sani- 
tary nightmare,  which  some  who  have  worked  in  the  foul 
places  of  the  earth,  know  but  too  well.  Evidently  his  health 
could  not  stand  it.  There  was  no  work  to  be  got  out  of 
him  in  that  direction. 

"Would  he  write,  then,  and  represent  matters  to  Lord 
Scoutbush  ? " 

How  could  he  ?  He  did  not  know  the  man  ;  not  a  line 
had  ever  been  exchanged  between  them.  Their  relations 
were  so  very  peculiar.  It  would  seem  sheer  impertinence 
on  his  part  to  interfere  with  the  management  of  Lord  Scout- 
bush's  property.  Really  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  said 
Tom  felt,  for  poor  Elsley's  dislike  of  meddling  in  that 
quarter. 

"  Would  Mrs.  Vavasour  write,  then  ?  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  mention  it  to  her  !  She  wc'uld 
be  so  terrified  about  the  children  ;  she  is  worn  out  with  anx- 
iety already,"  and  so  forth. 

Tom  went  back  to  Frank  Headley. 

"  You  see  a  good  deal  of  Miss  St.  Just  ?  " 

"  I  ?  —  No  !  —  why  ?   what  ?  "  said  poor  Frank,  blushing 

"  Only  that  you  must  make  her  write  to  hor  brother  about 
this  chnlc'-'H." 

20 


230  THE    DOCTOR   AT   BAT. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it  is  such  a  subject  for  a  lady  to  meddle 
with." 

"  It  has  no  scruple  in  meddling  with  ladies  ;  so  ladies 
ought  to  have  none  in  meddling  with  it.  You  must  do  it 
as  delicately  as  you  will  ;  but  done  it  must  be  ;  it  is  our 
only  chance.  Tell  her  of  Tardrew's  obstinacy,  or  Scout- 
bush  will  go  by  his  opinion  ;  and  tell  her  to  keep  the  secret 
fron;  her  sister." 

Frank  did  it,  and  well.  Valencia  was  horror-struck,  and 
wrote. 

Scoutbush  was  away  at  sea,  nobody  knew  where  ;  and  a 
full  fortnight  elapsed  beibre  an  answer  came. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  quite  mistaken  if  you  think  I  can  do 
anything.  Nine-tenths  of  tlie  houses  in  Alberalva  are  not 
in  my  hands  ;  but  copyholds  and  long  leases,  over  which  I 
have  no  power.  If  the  people  will  complain  to  me  of  any 
given  nuisance,  I  '11  right  it  if  I  can  ;  and,  if  the  doctor 
wants  money,  and  sees  any  way  of  laying  it  out  well,  he 
shall  have  what  he  wants,  though  I  am  very  high  in  Queer- 
street  just  now,  ma'am,  having  paid  your  bills  before  I  left 
town,  like  a  good  brother  ;  but  I  tell  you  again,  I  have  nc 
more  power  than  you  have,  except  over  a  few  cottages  ; 
and  Tardrew  assured  me,  three  weeks  ago,  that  they  were 
as  comfortable  as  they  ever  had  been." 

So  Tardrew  had  forestalled  Thurnall  in  writing  to  the 
viscount.     Well,  there  was  one  more  chance  to  be  tried. 

Tom  gave  his  lecture  in  the  school-room.  He  showed 
them  magnified  abominations  enough  to  frighten  all  tlie 
children  into  fits,  and  dilated  on  horrors  enough  to  spoil 
all  appetites  ;  he  proved  to  them  thq,t,  though  they  had 
the  finest  water  in  the  world  all  over  the  town,  they  had 
contrived  t'l  poison  almost  every  drop  of  it  ;  he  waxed  elo- 
quent, witty,  sarcastic  ;  and  the  net  result  was  a  general 
grumble. 

"  IIow  (lid  he  get  hold  of  all  the  specimens,  as  he  calls 
them  ?  What  business  has  he  poking  his  nose  down  peo- 
ple's wells  and  water-butts  ?  " 

But  an  unexpected  ally  arose  at  this  juncture,  in  the 
coast-guard  lieutenant,  who,  being  valiant  after  his  even- 
ing's brandy  and  water,  rose  and  declared,  "  that  Doctor 
Thurnall  was  a  very  clever  man  ;  that,  by  what  he  'd  seen 
himself  in  the  West  Indies,  it  was  all  as  true  as  gospel  ;  that 
the  parish  might  have  the  cholera  if  it  liked,"  —  and  hero  a 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  231 

few  expletives  occurred,  —  "but  that  he'd  see  that  the 
coast-g-uard  houses  were  put  to  rights  at  once  ;  for  he  would 
not  have  the  lives  of  her  majestj'-'s  servants  endangered  by 
Buch  dirty  tricks,  not  fit  for  heathen  savages,"  &c.  etc. 

Tom  struck  while  the  iron  was  hot.  He  saw  that  tho 
great  man's  speech  had  produced  an  impression. 

"Would  he"  (so  he  asked  the  lieutenant,  privately )j 
"  get  some  one  to  join  him,  and  present  a  few  of  these 
nuisances  ?  " 

He  would  do  anything  in  his  contempt  for  "a  lot  of  long- 
Bhore  merchant-skippers  and  herringers,  who  went  about 
calling  themselves  captains,  and  fancy  themselves,  sir,  as 
good  as  if  they  wore  the  Queen's  uniform  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  can't  we  find  another  householder  —  some 
cantankerous  dog  who  don't  mind  a  row  ?  " 

Yes,  the  cantankerous  dog  was  found,  in  the  person  of 
Mr.  John  Penruddock,  coal-merchant,  who  had  quarrelled 
with  Tardrew,  because  Tardrew,  he  said,  gave  short  weight 
—  which  he  very  probably  did  —  and  had  quarrelled  also 
with  Thomas  Beer,  senior,  ship-builder,  about  right  of  pas- 
sage through  a  back-yard. 

Mr.  Penruddock  suddenly  discovered  that  Mr.  Beer  kept 
up  a  dirt-heap  in  the  said  back-yard,  and  with  virtuous  in- 
dignation vowed  "  he  'd  sarve  the  old  beggar  out  at  last." 

So  far  so  good.  The  weapons  of  reason  and  righteous- 
ness having  failed,  Tom  felt  at  liberty  to  borrow  the  devil's 
tools.  Now  to  pack  a  vestiy,  and  to  nominate  a  local  com- 
mittee. 

The  vestry  was  packed  ;  the  committee  nominated  ;  of 
course  half  of  them  refused  to  act  —  they  "  did  n't  want  to 
go  quarrelling  with  their  neighbors." 

Tom  explained  to  them  cunningly  and  delicately  that 
they  would  have  nothing  to  do  :  that  one  or  two  (he  did 
not  say  that  he  was  the  one,  and  the  two  also)  would  do  all 
the  work,  and  bear  all  the  odium  ;  whereon  the  malcontents 
subsided,  considering  it  likely  that,  after  all,  nothing  would 
be  done. 

Some  may  fancy  that  matters  were  now  getting  somewhat 
settled.  Those  who  do  so  know  little  of  the  charming  ma- 
chinery of  local  governments.  One  man  has  "  summat  to 
Bay,"  —  utterly  irrelevant.  Another  must  needs  answer 
him  with  something  equally  irrelevant ;  a  long  chatter 
ensues,  in  spite  of  all  cries  to  order  and  question.  Soon 
one  and  another  gets  personal,  and  temper  shows  here  and 
Ihere,      You  would  fancy  that  the  go-head  paity  try  to 


232  THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 

restore  order,  and  help  business  on.  Not  in  tlie  least. 
They  had  beg'un  to  cool  a  little.  They  are  a  little  afraid 
that  they  have  committed  themselves.  If  people  quarrel 
with  each  other,  perhaps  they  may  quarrel  with  them  too 
And  they  begin  to  be  wonderfully  patient  and  impartial,  in 
the  hope  of  stavinpf  off  the  evil  day,  and  finding  some  ex- 
cuse for  doing  nothing  after  all.  "  Hear  'mun  out  !  "  .  .  . 
"  Vair  and  zoi't,  let  ev^y  man  ha'  his  zay  !  "  ...  "  There  'a 
varv  gude  rason  in  it."  .  .  .  "  I  did  n't  think  of  that 
avore  ;  "  —  and  so  forth  ;  till,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the 
whole  question  has  to  be  discussed  over  again,  through  the 
fog  of  a  dozen  fresh  fallacies,  and  the  miserable  earnest 
man  finds  himself  considerably  worse  off  than  when  he 
began.  IIapi)y  for  him.  if  some  chance-word  is  not  let 
drop,  which  will  afibrd  the  whole  assembly  an  excuse  for 
falling  on  him  open-mouthed,  as  the  cause  of  all  their  woes  I 

That  chance-word  came.  Mr.  Penruddock  gave  a  spite- 
ful hit,  being,  as  is  said,  of  a  cantankerous  turn,  to  Mr. 
Treluddra,  principal  "jowder,"  that  is,  fish-salesman,  of 
Aberalva.  Whereon  Treluddra,  whose  conscience  told  him 
that  there  was  at  present  in  his  back-yard  a  cartload  and 
moi'e  of  fish  in  every  stage  of  putrefaction,  which  he  had 
kept  rotting  there  rather  than  lower  the  market-price,  rose 
in  wrath. 

"  An'  if  any  committee  puts  its  noz  into  my  back-yard, 
if  it  doant  get  the  biggest  cod's  innards  as  I  can  collar  hold 
on,  about  its  ears,  my  name  is  not  Treluddra  !  A  man's 
house  is  his  castle,  says  I,  and  them  as  takes  up  with  any 
o'  this  here  open-day  burglary,  for  it's  nothing  less,  has 
to  do  wi'  me,  that 's  all,  and  them  as  knows  their  interest, 
knows  me  !  " 

Terrible  were  these  words  ;  for  old  Treluddra,  like  most 
jowders,  combined  the  profession  of  money-lender  with  that 
of  salesman  ;  and  there  were  dozens  in  the  place  who  were 
in  debt  to  him  for  money  advanced  to  buy  boats  and  nets, 
after  wreck  and  loss.  Besides,  to  offend  one  jowder,  was 
to  offend  all.  They  combined  to  buy  the  fish  at  any  price 
they  chose  ;  — if  angered,  they  would  combine  now  and  then 
not  to  buy  it  at  all. 

"  You  old  twenty  percent,  rascal !  "  roared  the  lieutenant, 
"after  making  a  fortune  out  of  these  poor  fellows'  niish;ips, 
do  3''ou  want  to  poison  'em  all  with  your  stinking  fish  ?  " 

"I  say,  lieutenant,"  says  old  Beer,  whose  son  owed 
Treluddra  fift}''  pounds  at  that  moment,  "fair's  fair.  You 
aiind  your  coast-guard,  and  we'm  mind  our  trade.     We  'm 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  233 

free  fishermen,  by  charter  and  right ;  you  'm  not  our  master, 
and  YOU  shall  know  it." 

"  know  it  ?  "  says  the  lieutenant,  foaming. 

"  Iss  !  You  put  your  head  inside  my  presences,  and  I  'U 
split  mnn  open,  if  I  he  hanged  for  it." 

"  You  '11  split  my  head  open  ?  " 

"Iss,  by !  "     And  the  old  gray-bearded  sea-king  set 

his  arms  akimbo 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  "  cries  poor 
Headley,  "this  is  really  going  too  far.  Gentlemen,  the 
vestry  is  adjourned  !  " 

"  Best  thing,  too  ;  oughtn't  never  to  have  been  called," 
says  one  and  another. 

And  some  one,  as  he  went  out,  muttered  something  about 
"interloping  strange  doctors,  colloquies  with  popish  cu- 
rates," which  was  answered  by  a  "Put  'num  in  the  quay 
pule  !  "  from  Treluddra. 

Tom  stepped  up  to  Treluddra  instantly.  "  WTiat  were 
you  so  kind  as  to  say,  sir  ?  " 

Treluddra  turned  very  pale.     "  I  did  n't  say  naught." 

"  0,  but  I  assure  you  1  heard  ;  and  I  shall  be  most  happy 
to  jump  into  the  quay  pule  this  afternoon,  if  it  will  aflbrd 
you  the  slightest  amusement.  Say  the  word,  and  I  '11  bor- 
row a  flute,  and  play  you  the  Rogue's  March  all  the  while 
with  my  right  hand,  swimming  with  my  left.  Now,  gentle- 
men, one  word  before  we  part." 

"  Who  be  you  ?  "  cries  some  one. 

"  A  man,  at  least,  and  ought  to  have  a  fair  hearing.  Now, 
1  ask  you,  what  possible  interest  can  I  have  in  this  matter? 
I  knew  when  I  began  that  I  should  give  myself  a  frightful 
quantity  of  trouble,  and  get  only  what  I  have  got." 

"  Why  did  you  begin  at  all,  then  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  a  very  foolish,  meddlesome  ass,  who  fan- 
cied that  I  ought  to  do  my  duty  once  in  a  way  by  my  neigh- 
bois.  Now,  i  have  only  to  say,  that  if  you  will  but  forgive 
and  forget,  and  let  bygones  be  bygones,  I  promise  you  sol- 
emnly i  '11  never  do  my  duty  by  you  again  as  long  as  I  live, 
nor  interfere  with  the  sacred  privilege  of  every  free-born 
Englishman,  to  do  that  which  is  right  in  the  sight  of  his  own 
eyes,  and  wrong  too  !  " 

"  You  'm  making  fun  at  us,"  said  old  Beer,  dubiously. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Beer,  and  isn't  that  better  than  quarrelling 

with  you  ?     Come  along;  we'll   all  go  home  and  forget  it, 

like  good  Christians.    Perhaps  the  cholera  won't  come  ;  and 

■'f  it  does,  what  's  the  odds,  so  long  as  you  're  happy,  eh  ?  '' 

20* 


234  THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAY. 

And,  to  the  intense  astonishment  both  of  the  lieutenant 
and  Frank,  Tom  walked  homo  witli  the  mah-ontents,  mak- 
ing himself  so  agreeable  that  he  was  forgiven  freely  on  the 
spot. 

"  What  does  the  fellow  mean  ?  lie  's  deserted  us,  sir, 
after  bringing  us  here  to  make  fools  of  us !  " 

Frank  could  give  no  answer ;  but  Thurnall  gave  one  him- 
Belf,  that  evening,  both  to  Frank  and  the  lieutenant. 

"  The  cholera  will  come  ;  and  these  fellows  are  just  mad  ; 
but  I  must  n't  quarrel  with  them,  mad  or  not." 

"  Why  then  ?  " 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  you  must  not.  If  we  keep 
our  influence,  we  may  be  able  to  do  some  good  at  the  last ; 
which  means,  in  plain  English,  saving  a  few  human  lives. 
As  for  you,  lieutenant,  you  have  behaved  like  a  hero,  and 
have  been  served  as  heroes  generally  are.  What  you  must 
do  is  this.  On  the  first  hint  of  disease,  pack  up  your  traps 
and  your  good  lady,  and  go  and  live  in  the  watch-house 
across  the  river.  As  for  the  men's  houses,  I  '11  set  them  to 
rights  in  a  day,  if  you  '11  get  the  commander  of  the  district 
to  allow  you  a  little  chloride  of  lime  and  whitewash." 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

"  You  're  a  greater  puzzle  than  ever  to  me,  Thurnall," 
said  Frank.  "  You  are  always  pretending  to  care  for  noth- 
ing but  your  own  interest,  and  yet  here  you  have  gone  out 
of  your  way  to  incur  odium,  knowing,  you  say,  tliat  your 
cause  was  all  but  hopeless." 

"  Well,  I  do  it  because  I  like  it.  It's  a  sort  of  sporting 
with  your  true  doctor.  He  blazes  away  at  a  disease  where 
he  sees  one,  as  he  would  at  a  bear  or  a  lion  ;  the  very  sight 
of  it  excites  his  organ  of  destructiveness.  Don't  you  under- 
stand me  ?  You  hate  sin,  you  know.  Well,  I  hate  disease. 
Moral  evil  is  your  devil,  and  physical  evil  is  mine.  1  hate 
it,  little  or  big ;  I  hate  to  see  a  fellow  sick  ;  I  hate  to  see  a 
child  rickety  and  pale  ;  I  hate  to  see  a  speck  of  dirt  in  the 
street ;  1  hate  to  see  a  woman's  gown  torn  ;  I  hate  to  see 
her  stockings  down  at  heel  ;  I  hate  to  see  anything  wasted, 
anything  awry,  anything  going  wrong  ;  I  hate  to  see  water- 
power  wasted,  manure  wasted,  land  wasted,  muscle  wasted, 
pluck  wasted,  l)rains  wasted  ;  I  hate  neglect,  incapacity, 
idleness,  ignorance,  and  all  the  disease  and  misery  which 
spring  out  of  that.  There's  my  devil  ;  and  I  can't  help, 
tor  the  life  of  me,  going  right  at  his  throat,  wheresoever  I 
meet  him." 

Lastly,  rather  to  clear  bis  reputation  than  in  the  hope  of 


THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAT.  235 

doing'  go  id,  Tom  wrote  up  to  London,  and  detailed  the  case 
to  that  niuch-ealumniated  body,  the  General  Board  of 
Health,  informing  them  civilly  that  the  Nuisances  Removal 
Act  was  simply  waste  paper ;  that  he  could  not  get  it  to 
bear  at  all  on  Aberalva  :  and  that  if  he  had  done  so,  it 
would  have  been  equally  useless,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  constituted  the  offenders  themselves  judge  and  jury  in 
their  own  case. 

To  which  the  board  returned  for  answer,  that  they  were 
perfectly  aware  of  the  fact,  and  deeply  deplored  the  same  ; 
but  that,  as  soon  as  cholera  broke  out  in  Aberalva,  they 
should  be  most  happy  to  send  down  an  inspector. 

To  which  Tom  replied  courteously  that  he  would  not  give 
them  the  trouble,  being  able,  he  trusted,  to  perform  without 
assistance  the  not  uncommon  feat  of  shutting  the  stable- 
door  after  the  horse  was  stolen. 

And  so  was  Aberalva  left  "  a  virgin  city,"  undefiled  by 
government  interference,  to  the  blessings  of  that  "  local  gov- 
ernment," which  signifies,  in  plain  English,  the  leaving  the 
few  to  destroy  themselves  and  the  many,  by  the  unchecked 
exercise  of  the  virtues  of  pride  and  ignorance,  stupidity  and 
stinginess. 

But  to  Tom,  in  his  sorest  need,  arose  a  new  and  most  un- 
expected coadjutor  ;  and  this  was  the  way  in  which  it  camo 
to  pass. 

For  it  befell  in  that  pleasant  summer  time,  "  when  small 
birds  sing,  and  shaughs  are  gi-een,"  that  Thurnall  started, 
one  bright  Sunday  eve,  to  see  a  sick  child  at  an  upland 
farm,  some  few  miles  from  the  town.  And  partly  because 
he  liked  the  walk,  and  partly  because  he  could  no  other, 
having  neither  horse  nor  gig,  he  went  on  foot ;  and  whistled 
as  he  went  like  any  throstle-cock,  along  the  pleasant  vale, 
by  flowery  banks  and  ferny  walls,  by  oak  and  ash  and  thorn, 
while  Alva  flashed  and  swirled,  between  green  boughs  below, 
clear  coffee-brown  from  last  night's  rain.  Some  miles  up  the 
turnpike  road  he  went,  and  then  away  to  the  right,  through 
the  ash-woods  of  Trebooze,  up  by  the  rill  which  drips  from 
pool  to  pool  over  the  ledges  of  gray  slate,  deep-bedded  in 
dark  sedge  and  broad,  bright  burdock  leaves,  and  tall  ang-  i- 
ica,  and  ell-broad  rings  and  tufts  of  king,  and  crown,  and 
lady  fern,  and  all  the  semi-tropic  luxuriance  of  the  fat  west- 
ern soil,  and  steaming  western  woods  ;  out  into  the  boggy 
moor  at  the  glen-head,  all  fragrant  with  the  gold-tipped  gale, 
where  the  turf  is  enamelled  with  the  hectic  marsh  violet, 
and  the  pink  pimpernel,  and  the  pale  yellow  leaf  stars  of 


236  THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAY. 

the  l)nltorwort,  and  the  bhie  bells  and  green  threads  of  the 
ivy-leaved  campanula  ;  out  upon  the  steep,  smooth  down 
above,  and  away  over  the  broad  cattle-pastures;  and  then 
to  pause  a  moment,  and  look  far  and  wide  over  land  and  sea. 

It  was  a  "  day  of  God."  The  earth  lay  like  one  great 
emerald,  ringed  and  roofed  with  sapphire:  blue  sea,  blue 
mountain,  blue  sky  overhead.  There  she  lay,  not  sleeping, 
but  basking  in  her  quiet  Sabbath  joy,  as  though  lier  two 
great  sisters  of  the  sea  and  air  had  washed  her  weary  limbs 
with  holy  tears,  and  purged  away  the  stains  of  last  week's 
sin  and  toil,  and  cooled  her  hot  worn  forehead  with  their 
pure  incense-breath,  and  folded  her  within  tlieir  azure  robes, 
and  brooded  over  her  with  smiles  of  pitying  love,  till  she 
Bmiled  back  in  answer,  and  took  heart  and  hope  for  next 
week's  weary  work. 

Heart  and  hope  for  next  week's  work.  That  was  the  ser- 
mon which  it  preached  to  Tom  Thurnall,  as  he  stood  there 
alone,  a  stranger  and  a  wanderer,  like  Ulysses  of  old  ;  but 
like  him,  self-helpful,  cheerful,  fate-defiant.  In  one  respect, 
indeed,  he  knew  less  than  Ulysses,  and  was  more  of  a  hea- 
then than  he  ;  for  he  knew  not  what  Ulysses  knew,  that  a 
heavenly  guide  was  with  him  in  his  wanderings  ;  still  less 
what  Ulysses  knew  not,  that  what  he  called  the  malicious 
sport  of  fortune  was,  in  truth,  the  earnest  education  of  a 
Father  ;  but  who  will  blame  him  for  getting  strength  and 
comfort  from  such  merely  natural  founts,  or  say  that  the 
impulse  came  from  below,  and  not  from  above,  which  made 
him  say  — 

"Brave  old  world  she  is,  after  all,  and  right  well  made  ; 
and  looks  right  well  to-day,  in  her  go-to-meeting  clothes  ; 
and  plenty  of  room  and  chance  in  her  for  a  brave  man  to 
earn  his  bread,  if  he  will  but  go  right  on  about  liis  business, 
as  the  birds  and  the  flowers  do,  instead  of  peaking  and  pining 
over  what  people  think  of  him,  like  that  miserable  Briggs 
Hark  to  that  jolly  old  missel-thrush  below!  he's  had  his 
nest  to  build,  and  his  supper  to  earn,  and  his  young  ones 
to  feed  ;  and  all  the  crows  and  kites  in  the  wood  to  drive 
away,  the  sturdy  John  Bull  that  he  is  ;  and  yet  he  can  find 
time  to  sing  as  merrily  as  an  abbot,  morning  and  evening, 
since  he  sang  the  new  year  in  last  January.  And  why 
should  not  I  ?  " 

Let  him  be  a  while  ;  there  are  sounds  of  deeper  meaning 
in  the  air,  if  his  heart  had  ears  to  hear  them  ;  fir-ofi' church 
i)ells  chiming  to  even-song;  hymn-tunes  floating  up  the 
glen  from  the  little  chapel  in  the  vale.     He  may  learn  what 


THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAY.  237 

they  too  mean  some  day.  Honor  to  him  at  least,  that  he 
has  learnt  what  the  missel-thnish  below  can  tell  him.  If 
he  accept  cheerfully  and  manfully  the  thing-s  which  he  does 
see,  he  will  be  all  the  more  able  to  enter  hereaiter  into  the 
deeper  mystery  of  things  unseen.  The  road  toward  true 
faith  and  reverence  for  God's  kingdom  of  heaven  does  not 
lie  through  Manicha^an  contempt  and  slander  of  God's  king- 
dom of  earth. 

So  let  him  stride  over  the  down,  enjoying  the  mere  fact 
of  life,  and  health,  and  strength,  and  whistling  shrilly  to 
the  bird  below,  who  trumpets  out  a  few  grand  ringing 
notes,  and  repeats  them  again  and  again  in  saucy  selt-sat- 
isfaction  ;  and  then  stops  to  listen  for  the  answer  to  this 
challenge  ;  and  then  rattles  on  again  with  a  fresh  passage, 
more  saucily  than  ever,  in  a  tone  which  seems  to  ask, — 
"You  could  sing  that,  eh?  but  can  you  sing  this,  my  fine 
fellow  on  the  down  above  ?  "  So  he  seems  to  Tom  to  say  ; 
and,  tickled  with  the  fancy,  Tom  laughs,  and  whistles,  and 
laughs,  and  has  just  time  to  compose  his  features  as  he  steps 
up  to  the  farm-yard  gate. 

Let  him  be,  I  say  again.  lie  might  have  better  Sunday 
thoughts  ;  perhaps  he  will  have  some  day.  At  least  he  is 
a  man,  and  a  brave  one  ;  and  as  the  greater  contains  the 
less,  surely  before  a  man  can  be  a  good  man,  he  must  be  a 
brave  one  first,  much  more  a  man  at  all.  Cowards,  old  Odin 
held,  inevitably  went  to  the  very  bottom  of  Hela-pool,  and 
by  no  possibility,  unless  of  course  they  became  brave  at 
last,  could  rise  out  of  that  everlasting  bog,  but  sank  whining 
lower  and  lower  like  mired  cattle,  to  all  eternity  in  the  unfath- 
omable peat-slime.  And  if  the  twenty-first  chapter  of  the 
Book  of  "Revelation,  and  the  eighth  verse,  is  to  be  taken  as 
it  stands,  their  doom  has  not  altered  since  Odin's  time,  unless 
to  become  still  worse. 

Tom  came  up,  over  the  home-close  and  through  the  bar- 
ton-gate, through  the  farm-yard,  and  stopped  at  last  at  the 
porch.  The  front  door  was  open,  and  the  door  beyond  it ; 
and,  ere  he  knocked,  he  stopped,  looking  in  silence  at  a  pic- 
ture which  held  him  spell-bound  for  a  moment  by  its  rich 
and  yet  quiet  beauty. 

Tom  was  no  artist,  and  knew  no  more  of  painting,  in  spite 
of  his  old  friendship  with  Claude,  than  was  to  be  expected 
of  a  keen  and  observant  naturalist  who  had  seen  half  the 
globe.  Indeed,  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  snubbing  Claude's 
profession  ;  and  of  arriving,  on  pre-Raphaelite  grounds,  at 
a  by  no  means  pre-Raphaelite  conclusion.     "  A  { icture,you 


238  THE    DOCTOR   AT   BAY. 

say,  is  wortli  nothing  unless  you  copy  nature.  But  you 
can't  copy  her.  She  is  ten  times  more  gorgeous  than  any 
man  can  dare  represent  her.  Ergo,  every  picture  is  a  fail 
ure  ;  and  the  nearest  hedge-busli  is  wortli  all  your  galleries 
together  "  —  a  syllogism  of  sharp  edge,  which  he  would  ba<'.k 
up  by  Byron's  — 

"  I  've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real. 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal." 

But  here  was  one  of  nature's  own  pictures,  drawn  and 
colored  by  more  than  mortal  hand,  and  framed  over  and 
above,  ready  to  his  eye,  by  the  square  of  the  dark  doorway, 
beyond  which  all  was  flooded  with  the  full  glory  of  the  low 
north-western  sun. 

A  dark  oak-ribbed  ceiling  ;  walls  of  pale  fawn-yellow  ;  an 
open  window,  showing  a  corner  of  rich  olive-stone  wall, 
enamelled  with  golden  lichens,  orange  and  green  combs  of 
polypody,  pink  and  gray  tufts  of  pellitory,  all  glowing  in 
the  sunlight. 

Above  the  window-sill  rose  a  bush  of  maiden-blush  roses  ; 
a  tall  spire  of  blue  monkshood  ;  and  one  head  of  scarlet 
lychnis,  like  a  spark  of  fire  ;  and  behind  all  the  dark-blue  sea, 
which  faded  into  the  pale-blue  sky. 

At  the  window  stood  a  sofa  of  old  maroon  leather,  its  dark 
hue  throwing  out  in  strong  relief  two  figures  who  sat  upon 
it.  And  when  Tom  had  once  looked  at  them,  he  looked  at 
nothing  else. 

There  sat  the  sick  girl,  her  head  nestling  upon  the  shoul- 
der of  Grace  Ilarvey  ;  a  tall,  delicate  thing  of  seventeen, 
with  thin  white  cheeks,  the  hectic  spot  aflame  on  each,  and 
long  fair  curls,  which  mingled  lovingly  with  Grace's  dark 
tresses,  as  they  sat  cheek  against  cheek,  and  hand  in  hand. 
Her  eyes  were  closed  ;  Tom  thought  at  first  that  she  was 
asleep  ;  but  there  was  a  quiet  smile  about  her  pale  lips  ;  and 
ever}'  now  and  tluiu  her  hand  left  Grace's,  to  move  towards 
a  leaf  full  of  strawberries  which  lay  on  Grace's  lap  :  and 
Tom  could  see  that  she  was  listening  intently  to  Grace,  who 
told  and  told,  in  that  sweet,  measured  voice  of  hers,  her 
head  erect,  her  face  in  the  full  blaze  of  sunshine,  her  great 
eyes  looking  out  far  away  beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky, 
into  some  infinite  which  only  she  beheld. 

Tom  had  approached  unheard,  across  the  farm-yard  straw. 
He  stood  and  looked  his  fill  The  attitude  of  the  two  girla 
was  so  graceful,  that  he  was  loath  to  disturb  it.  an(?  loath, 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAT.  239 

too,  to  disturb  a  certain  sunny  calm  which  warmed  at  once 
and  softened  his  stout  heart. 

He  wished,  too,  he  scarce  knew  why,  to  hear  what  Grace 
was  saying ;  and,  as  he  listened,  her  voice  was  so  distinct 
and  delicate  in  its  modulations,  that  every  word  came 
clearly  to  his  ear. 

It  was  the  beautiful  old  legend  of  St.  Dorothea  : 

"  So  they  did  all  sorts  of  dreadful  things  to  her,  and  then 
led  her  away  to  die  ;  and  they  stood  laughing  there.  But 
after  a  little  time  there  came  a  boy,  the  prettiest  boy  that 
ever  was  seen  on  earth,  and  in  his  hand  a  basket  full  of 
fruits  and  flowers,  more  beautiful  than  tongue  can  tell. 
And  he  said,  '  Dorothea  sends  you  these,  out  of  the  heavenly 
garden  which  she  told  you  of :  —  will  you  believe  her  now  ? ' 
And  then,  before  they  could  reply,  he  vanished  away. 
And  Theophilus  looked  at  the  flowers,  and  tasted  the  fruit, 
and  a  new  heart  grew  up  within  him,  and  he  said,  '  Doro- 
thea's God  shall  be  my  God,  and  I  will  die  for  him  like  her.' 

"  So  you  see,  darling,  there  are  sweeter  fruits  than 
these,  and  gaj'er  flowers,  in  the  place  to  which  you  go  ;  and 
all  the  lovely  things  in  this  world  here  will  seem  quite  poor 
and  worthless  beside  the  glory  of  that  better  land  which  He 
will  show  you  ;  and  yet  you  will  not  care  to  look  at  them, 
for  the  sight  of  Him  will  be  enough,  and  you  will  cai'e  to 
think  of  nothing  else." 

"  And  you  are  sure  He  will  accept  me,  after  all  ?  "  asked 
the  sick  girl,  opening  her  eyes,  and  looking  up  at  Grace. 
She  saw  Thurnall  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  gave  a  little 
scream. 

Tom  came  forward,  bowing.  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  have 
disturbed  you.  I  suspect  Miss  Harvey  was  giving  you 
better  medicine  than  I  can  give." 

Now,  why  did  Tom  say  that,  to  whom  the  legend  of  St 
Dorothea,  and,  indeed,  that  whole  belief  in  a  better  land, 
was  as  a  dream  fit  only  for  girls  ? 

Not  altogether  because  he  must  need  say  something  civil. 
True,  he  felt,  on  the  whole,  about  the  future  state  as  Gothe 
did:  "To  the  able  man  this  world  is  not  dumb;  why 
should  he  ramble  off  into  eternity  ?  Such  incomprehensible 
subjects  lie  too  far  off,  and  only  disturb  our  tlioughts,  if 
made  the  subject  of  daily  meditation."  That  there  was  a 
future  state  he  had  no  doubt.  Our  having  been  born  once, 
he  used  to  say,  is  the  strongest  possible  presumption  in 
favor  of  our  being  born  again  ;  and  probably,  as  nature 
always  works  upward  and  develops  higher  forms,  in  sorno 


240  THE    DOCTOR   AT    BAY. 

higher  state.     Indeed,  for  aught  he  knew,  the  old  icthyu- 
saurs  and  plesiosaurs  might  be  alive  now,  as  lions  —  or  as 
men.     lie  himself,  indeed,  he  had  said,  ere  now,  had  been 
probably  a  pterodactyle  of  the  Lias,  neither  fish,  Hesh,  nor 
good  red  herring,  but  crocodile  and  bat  in  one,  able  alike  to 
swim,  or  run,  or  fly,  eat  anytliing,  and  live  in  any  element. 
Still  it  was  no  concern  of  his.     lie  was  here,  and  here  was 
his  business,     lie  had  not  thought  of  this  life  before  he 
came  into  it ;  and  it  would  be  time  enough  to  think  of  the 
next  life  when  he  got  into  it.     Besides,  he  had  all  a  doctor's 
dislike  of  those  terrors  of  the  unseen  world  with  which  some 
men  are  wont  to  oppress  still  more  failing  nature,  and  break 
the  bruised  reed.     His  business  was  to  cure  his  patients' 
bodies  ;  and,  if  he  could  not  do  that,  at  least  to  see  that  life 
was  not  shortened  in  them  by  nervous  depression  and  anxi- 
ety.    Accustomed  to  see  men  of  every  character  die  under 
every  possible  circumstance,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  "safety  of  a  man's  soul"  could  by  no  possibility 
be  inferred  from  his  death-bed  temper.     The  vast  majority, 
good  or  bad,  died  in  peace  :  why  not  let  them  die  so  "/     If 
nature  kindly  took  off  die  edge  of  sorrow,  by  blunting  the 
nervous  system,  what  right  had  man  to  interfere  with  so 
merciful  an  arrangement  ?     Every  man,  he  held  in  his  easy 
optimism,  would  go  where  he  ought  to  go  :  and  it  could  be 
no  possible  good  to  him  —  indeed,  it  might  be  a  very  bad 
thing  for  him,  as  in  this  life  —  to  go  where  he  ought  not  to 
go.     So  he  used  to  argue,  with  three-fourths  of  mankind, 
mingling  truth  and  falsehood  ;  and  would,  on  these  grounds, 
have  done  his  best  to  turn  the  dissenting  preacher  out  of 
that  house,  had  he  found  him  in  it.     But  to-day  he  was  in  a 
more    lenient,   perhaps    in    a    more   human,  and.   therefore, 
more  spiritual  mood.     It  was   all  very  well   for  him,  full  of 
life,  and  power,  and  hope,  to  look  on   death  in  that  cold, 
careless  way  ;  but   for   that  poor  young  thing,  cut  off,  just 
as  life   opened,  from   all   that  made   life  lovely  —  was    not 
death    for   her   a   painful,    ugly   anomaly  ?     Could    she   be 
blamed  if  she  shuddered  at  going  forth  into  the  unknown 
blank,  she  knew  not  whither  i*     All  very  well   for  the  old 
enipercr  of  Rome,  who  had  lived  his  life  and  done  his  work, 
to  play  with  the  dreary  question  : 

'  Animula,  vagula,  blanaula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Qme  nunc  abibis  in  loca, 
Rigidula,  nudula,  pallida?" 


THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAT.  241 

But  she,  who  had  lived  no  life,  and  done  no  work  —  only 
had  pined  through  weary  years  of  hideous  suifering  ;  crip- 
pled and  ulcerated  with  scrofula,  now  dying  of  consump- 
tion ;  was  it  not  a  merciful  dream,  a  beautiful  dream,  a 
just  dream, —  so  beautiful  and  just,  that  perhaps  it  might 
be  true, —  that,  in  some  fairer  world,  all  this,  and  more, 
might  be  made  up  to  her  ?  If  not,  was  it  not  a  mistake 
and  an  injustice,  that  she  should  ever  have  come  into  the 
world  at  all  ?  And  was  not  Grace  doing  a  rational  as 
well  as  a  loving  work,  in  telling  her,  under  whatsoever 
symbols,  that  such  a  home  of  rest  and  beauty  awaited 
her  ?  It  was  not  the  sort  of  place  to  which  he  expected, 
perhaps  even  wished,  to  go  ;  but  it  fitted  well  enough  vnth 
a  young  girl's  hopes,  a  young  girl's  powers  of  enjoy- 
ment. Let  it  be  ;  perhaps  there  was  such  a  place  —  why 
not?  —  fitted  for  St.  Dorothea,  and  those  cut  off'  in  youth 
like  her,  and  other  places  fit  for  such  as  he.  And  he  spoke 
more  tenderly  than  usual  (though  he  was  never  untender), 
as  he  said, 

"  And  you  feel  better  to-day  ?  I  am  sure  you  must,  with 
such  a  kind  friend,  to  tell  you  such  sweet  tales." 

"I  do  not  feel  better,  thank  you.  And  why  should  I 
wish  to  do  so  ?  You  all  take  too  much  trouble  about  me  ; 
why  do  you  want  to  keep  me  here  ?  " 

"  We  are  loath  to  lose  you  ;  and,  besides,  while  you  can 
be  kept  here,  it  is  a  sign  that  you  ought  to  be  here." 

"  So  Grace  tells  me.  Yes,  I  will  be  patient,  and  wait  till 
He  has  done  his  work.  I  am  more  patient  now  ;  am  I  not, 
Grace  ?  "  And  she  fondled  Grace's  hand,  and  looked  up  in 
her  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  Grace,  who  was  standing  near,  with  down- 
cast face,  trying  to  avoid  Tom's  eye.  "  Yes,  you  are  very 
good  ;  but  you  must  not  talk  ;  "  but  the  girl  went  on,  with 
kindling  eye  : 

"  Ah  !  1  was  very  fretful  at  first,  because  I  could  not  go 
to  heaven  at  once  ;  but  Grace  showed  me  how  it  was  good 
to  be  here,  as  well  as  there,  as  long  as  He  thought  that  I 
might  be  made  perfect  bj'  sufferings.  And  since  then  my 
pain  has  become  quite  pleasant  to  me,  and  I  am  ready  to 
wait  and  bear  —  wait  and  bear." 

"  You  must  not  talk  ;  see,  you  are  beginning  to  cough," 
said  Tom,  who  wished  somehow  to  stop  a  form  of  thought 
which  so  utterly  puzzled  him.  Not  that  he  had  not  heard 
it  before  ;  common-place  enough,  indeed,  it  is,  thank  God  ! 
but  that  day  the  words  came  home  to  him  with  spirit  and 
21 


242  THE   DOCTOR   AT    BAT. 

power,  all  the  more  solemnly  from  their  contrast  with  tho 
scene  around, — without,  all  sunshine,  joy,  and  glory,  all 
which  could  tempt  a  human  being  to  ling-er  here ;  and, 
within,  that  young-  girl  longing  to  leave  it  all,  and  yet  con- 
tent to  stay  and  suffer.  What  mysteries  there  were  in  the 
human  spirit  —  mysteries  to  which  that  knowledge  of  man- 
kind on  which  he  prided  himself  gave  him  no  key  ! 

"  What  if  I  were  laid  on  my  back  to-morrow  for  life  by  a 
fall,  a  blow,  as  I  have  seen  many  a  better  man  than  nie, 
should  I  not  wish  to  have  one  to  talk  to  me,  as  she  was 
talking  to  that  child  ?  "  And  for  a  moment  a  yearning  after 
Grace  came  over  him,  as  it  had  done  before,  and  swept  from 
his  mind  the  dark  cloud  of  suspicion. 

"  Now  I  must  talk  with  your  mother,"  said  he  ;  "  for  you 
have  better  company  than  mine  ;  and  1  hear  her  just 
coming  in." 

He  settled  little  matters  for  his  patient's  comfort  with 
the  farmer's  wife.  When  he  returned  to  bid  her  good-by, 
Grace  was  gone. 

"  I  hope  1  have  not  driven  her  away." 

"  0,  no  ;  she  had  been  here  an  hour,  and  she  must  go 
back  now  to  get  her  mother's  supper." 

"  That  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Tom,  looking  after  her  as  she 
went  down  the  field. 

"  She  's  an  angel  from  heaven,  sir.  Not  a  three  days  go 
over  without  her  walking  up  here  all  this  way,  after  her 
work,  to  comfort  my  poor  maid,  and  all  of  us  as  well. 
It 's  like  the  dew  of  heaven  upon  us.  Pity,  sir,  you  did  n't 
see  her  home." 

"  I  should  have  liked  it  well  enough  ;  but  folks  might 
talk,  if  two  young  people  were  seen  walking  together  Sun- 
day evening." 

"  0,  sir,  they  know  her  too  well  by  now,  for  miles  round, 
and  you,  too,  sir,  I  '11  make  bold  to  say." 

"  Well,  at  least  I  '11  go  after  her." 

So  Tom  went,  and  kept  Grace  in  sight  till  she  had  crossed 
the  little  moor,  and  disappeared  in  the  wood  below. 

He  had  gone  about  a  hundred  j'^ards  into  the  wood,  when 
he  heard  voices  and  laughter,  then  a  loud  shriek.  He  hur 
ried  forward.  In  another  minute,  Grace  rushed  up  to  him^ 
her  eyes  wide  with  terror  and  indignation. 

"  What  is  it?"   cried   he,  trying  to  stop  her;  but,  not 
geeming   to   see   him,  she    dashed  past  him,   and  ran  on 
Another  moment,  and  a  man  appeared  in  full  pursuit. 

It  was  Trebooze  of  Trebooze,  an  evil  laugh  upon  his  face 


THE    DOfJTOR    AT    BAY.  248 

Tom  planted  himsr^lf  across  the  narrow  path  in  an  atti- 
tude which  there  was  no  mistaking. 

Not  a  word  passed  between  them.  Silently  and  instinct* 
Vely,  like  two  fierce  dogs,  the  two  men  flew  upon  each 
other  ;  Turn  full  of  righteous  wrath,  and  Trebooze  of  half- 
drunken  passion,  turned  to  fury  by  the  interruption. 

He  was  a  far  taller  and  heavier  man  than  Thurnall ;  and, 
as  the  bully  of  the  neighborhood,  counted  on  an  easy  vic- 
tory. But  he  was  mistaken.  After  the  first  rush  was  over, 
he  found  it  impossible  to  close  with  his  foe,  and  saw  in  the 
doctor's  face,  now  grown  cool  and  business-like  as  usual, 
the  wily  smile  of  superior  science  and  expected  triumph. 

"  Brandy  and  water  in  the  morning  ought  not  to  improve 
the  wind,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  as  his  left  hand  countered 
provokingly,  while  his  right  rattled  again  and  again  upon 
Trebooze's  watch-chain.  "  Justice  will  overtake  you  in  the 
offending  part,  which  I  take  to  be  the  epigastric  region." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  the  scuffle  ended  shamefully  enough 
for  the  sottish  squireen. 

Tom  stood  over  him  a  minute,  as  he  sat  grovelling  and 
groaning  among  the  long  grass.  "  I  may  as  well  see  that 
1  have  not  killed  him.     No  ;  he  will  do  as  well  as  ever  — 

which  is  not   saying   much Now,  sir  !     Go  home 

quietly,  and  ask  Mrs.  Trebooze  for  a  little  rhubarb  and  sal- 
volatile.  I  '11  call  up  in  the  course  of  to-morrow  to  see  how 
you  are." 

"  1  Ml  kill  you,  if  I  catch  you  !  " 

"  As  a  man,  I  am  open,  of  course,  to  be  killed  by  any 
fair  means  ;  but,  as  a  doctor,  I  am  still  bound  to  see  after 
my  patient's  health."  And  Tom  bowed  civilly,  and  walked 
back  up  the  path  to  find  Grace,  after  washing  face  and  hands 
in  the  brook. 

He  found  her  up  at  Tolchard's  farm,  trembling  and  thank- 
ful. 

"  I  cannot  do  less  than  see  Miss  Harvey  safe  home  " 

Grace  hesitated. 

"  Mrs.  Tolchard,  I  am  sure  will  walk  with  us  ;  it  would 
be  safer,  in  case  you  felt  faint  again." 

But  Mrs.  Tolchard  would  not  come  to  save  Grace's  notiona 
of  propriety  ;  so  Tom  passed  Grace's  arm  through  his  own. 
She  offered  to  withdraw  it. 

"  No  ;  you  will  require  it.  You  do  not  know  yet  how 
much  you  have  gone  through.  My  fear  is,  that  you  will  feel 
it  all  the  more  painfully  when  the  excitement  is  past.  I  shall 
Bend  you  up  a  cordial ;  and  you  must  promise  me  to  take  it. 


244  THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY. 

You  owe  me  a  little  debt,  you  know,  to-day  ;  you  must  pay 
it  by  taking'  my  medieines." 

Grace  looked  up  at  him  sidelong  ;  for  there  was  a  pla^'f'ul 
tenderness  in  his  voice  which  was  new  to  her,  and  which 
thrilled  her  through  lUid  thruugh. 

"  1  will,  indeed,  I  promise  you.  But  I  am  so  much  better 
now.  Reall}',  I  can  walk  alone  I  "  And  she  withdrew  her 
arm  from  his,  but  not  hastily. 

After  that  they  walked  on  awhile  in  silence.  Grace  kept 
her  veil  down,  for  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  loved 
that  man  intensely,  utterly.  She  did  not  seek  to  deny  it  to 
herself.  God  had  given  him  to  her,  and  hers  he  was.  The 
very  sea,  the  devourer  whom  she  hated,  who  hungered  to 
swallow  up  all  young  fair  life,  the  very  sea  had  yielded  him 
up  to  her,  alive  from  the  dead.  And  yet  that  man,  she 
knew,  suspected  her  of  a  base  and  hateful  crime.  It  was 
too  dreadful !  She  could  not  exculpate  herself,  save  by 
blank  denial  —  and  what  would  that  avail  ?  The  large  hot 
drops  ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  had  need  of  all  her 
strength  to  prevent  sobbing. 

She  looked  round.  In  the  bright  summer  evening,  all 
things  were  full  of  joy  and  love.  The  hedge-banks  were 
gay  as  flower-gardens  ;  the  swifts  chased  each  other,  scream- 
ing harsh  delight ;  the  ring-dove  murmured  in  the  wood 
beneath  his  world-old  song,  which  she  had  taught  the  chil- 
dren a  hundred  times,  — 

*•  Curuckity  coo,  curuck  coo  ; 
You  love  me,  and  I  love  you  !  " 

The  woods  slept  golden  in  the  evening  sunlight ;  and  over- 
head brooded,  like  one  great  smile  of  God,  the  everlasting 
blue. 

"  He  will  right  me  !  "  she  said.  "  '  Hold  thee  still  in  the 
Lord,  and  abide  patiently,  and  lie  will  make  thy  righteous- 
ness clear  as  the  light,  and  thy  just  dealing  as  the  noon- 
day ! '  "     And  after  that  thought  she  wept  no  more. 

Was  it  as  a  reward  for  hm-  faith  that  Tom  began  to  talk 
to  her?  lie  had  paced  on  by  her  side,  serious,  but  not  sad. 
True,  he  had  suspected  her ;  he  suspected  her  still.  But 
that  scene  with  tiie  dying  child  had  been  no  sham.  There, 
at  least,  there  was  nothing  to  suspect,  nothing  to  sneer  at. 
The  calm  purity,  selt-sacrifice,  hope,  which  was  contained 
in  it,  had  softened  his  world-hardened  spirit,  and  woke  up 
in  him  feelings  which  were  always  pleasant,  —  feelings  which 


THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAi.  245 

the  sight  of  his  father,  or  the  writing  to  his  father,  could  only 
waken.  Quaintly  enough,  the  thought  of  Grace  and  of  his 
father  seemed  intertwined,  inextricable.  If  the  old  man  had 
but  such  a  nurse  as  she  !  And  for  a  moment  he  felt  a  glow 
of  tenderness  toward  her,  because  he  thought  she  woiild  be 
tender  to  his  father.  She  had  stolen  his  money,  certainly  ; 
or,  if  not,  she  knew  where  it  was,  and  would  not  tell  him. 
Well,  what  matter  just  then  ?  He  did  not  want  the  money 
at  that  minute.  How  much  pleasanter  and  wiser  to  take 
things  as  they  came,  and  enjoy  himself  while  he  could  ;  and 
fancy  that  she  was  always  what  he  had  seen  her  that  day  ! 
After  all,  it  was  much  more  pleasant  to  trust  people  than  to 
suspect  them.  "  Handsome  is  who  handsome  does  !  And, 
besides,  she  did  me  the  kindness  of  saving  my  life  ;  so  it 
would  but  be  civil  to  talk  to  her  a  little." 

He  began  to  talk  to  her  about  the  lovely  scene  around  ; 
and  found,  to  his  surprise,  that  she  saw  as  much  of  it  as  he, 
and  saw  a  great  deal  more  in  it  than  he.  Her  answers 
were  short,  modest,  faltering,  but  each  one  of  them  sug- 
gestive ;  and  Tom  soon  found  that  he  had  met  with  a  mind 
which  contained  all  the  elements  of  poetry,  and  needed  only 
education  to  develop  them. 

"  What  a  blue-stocking,  pre-Raphaelite  seventh-heaven- 
arian  she  would  have  been,  if  she  had  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  born  in  that  station  of  life  I  "  But  where  a  clever  man 
is  talking  to  a  beautiful  woman,  talk  he  will,  and  must,  for 
the  mere  sake  of  showing  off,  though  she  be  but  a  village 
schoolmistress  ;  and  Tom  soon  found  himself,  with  a  secret 
sneer  at  his  own  vanity,  displaying  before  her  all  the  much 
finer  things  that  he  had  seen  in  his  travels  ;  and,  as  he  talked, 
she  answered,  with  quiet  expressions  of  wonder,  sympathy, 
regret  at  her  own  narrow  sphere  of  experience,  till,  as  if  the 
truth  was  not  enough,  he  found  himself  running  to  the  very 
edge  of  exaggeration,  and  a  little  over  it,  in  the  enjoyment 
of  calling  out  her  passion  for  the  marvellous,  especially  when 
called  out  in  honor  of  himself. 

And  she,  simple  creature,  drank  it  all  in  as  sparkling  wine, 
and  only  dreaded  lest  the  stream  should  cease.  Adventures 
with  noble  savages  in  palm-fringed  coral  islands,  with 
greedy  robbers  amid  the  fragrant  hills  of  Greece,  with  fierce 
Indians  beneath  the  snow-peaks  of  the  far  west,  with  cow- 
ard Mexicans  among  tunals  of  cactus  and  agave  beneath 
the  burning  tropic  sun,  —  What  a  man  he  was  !  Where  had 
he  not  been,  and  what  had  he  not  seen  ?  And  how  he  had 
been  preserved  —  for  her  ?  And  his  image  seemed  to  her 
2i# 


246  THE   DOCTOR   AT    BAT. 

utterly  bcivutiful  and  glorious,  clothed  as  it  was  in  the 
beauty  and  glory  of  all  that  he  had  seen,  and  done,  and  suf- 
fered. 0  Love,  Love,  Love,  the  same  in  peasant  and  in 
peer!  The  more  honor  to  you,  then,  old  Love,  to  be  the 
same  thing  in  this  world  which  in  common  to  peasant  and  to 
peer.  They  say  that  you  are  blind  ;  a  dreamer,  an  exag- 
gerator  —  a  liar,  in  short.  Th(!y  know  just  nothing  about 
•  you,  then.  You  will  not  see  peopU?  as  they  seem,  and  as 
they  have  become,  no  doubt ;  but  why  ?  Because  you  see 
them  as  they  ought  to  be,  and  are,  in  some  deep  way, 
eternally,  in  the  sight  of  Him  who  conceived  and  created 
them. 

At  last  she  started,  as  if  waking  from  a  pleasant  dream, 
and  spoke,  half  to  herself — 

"  0,  how  foolish  of  me  to  be  idling  away  this  oppor- 
tunity—  the  only  one,  perhaps,  which  1  may  have  !  0,  Mr. 
Thurnall,  tell  me  about  this  cholera  !  " 

"  What  about  it?" 

"  Everything.  Ever  since  I  heard  of  what  you  have  been 
yaying  to  the  people,  ever  since  Mr.  Ileadley's  sermon,  it 
has  been  like  fire  in  my  ears  !  " 

"  I  am  truly  glad  to  hear  it.  If  all  parsons  had  preached 
about  it  for  the  last  fifteen  years  as  Mr.  Headley  did  last 
Sunday,  —  if  they  had  told  people  plainly  that,  if  the  cholera 
was  God's  judgment  at  all,  it  was  his  judgment  on  the  sin  of 
dirt,  and  that  the  repentance  which  He  required  was  to  wash 
and  be  clean  in  literal  earnest, —  the  cholera  would  be  impos- 
sible in  England  by  now." 

"0,  Mr.  Thurnall  !  but  is  it  not  God's  doing?  and  can  we 
stop  His  hand  ?  " 

"1  know  nothing  about  that,  Miss  Harvey.  I  only 
know  that  wheresoever  cholera  breaks  out,  it  is  some 
one's  fardt ;  and  if  deaths  occur,  some  one  ought  to  be  tried 
for  manslaughter  —  I  had  almost  said  murder  —  and  trans- 
ported for  lile." 

"  Some  one  ?     Who  ?  " 

"  That  will  be  settled  in  the  next  generation,  when  men 
iiave  common  sense  enough  to  make  laws  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  their  own  lives,  against  the  dirt,  and  covetousness, 
and  idleness,  of  a  set  of  human  hogs." 

Grace  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  But  can  nothing  be  done  to  keep  it  off  new  ?  Must  it 
come  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  must.  Still,  one  may  do  enough  to  save 
manj  lives  in  the  m'\an  while." 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  247 

"  Enough  to  save  many  lives  —  lives  ?  —  immortal  souls^ 
Loo  !     0,  what  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal,  Miss  Harvey,"  said  Tom,  across  whom 
the  recollection  of  Grace's  influence  flashed  for  the  first 
time.     What  a  help  she  might  be  to  him  ! 

And  he  talked  on  and  on  to  her.  and  found  that  she  en- 
tered into  his  plans  with  all  her  wild  enthusiasm,  but  also 
with  sound  practical  common  sense  ;  and  Tom  began  to- 
respect  her  intellect  as  well  as  her  heart. 

At  last,  however,  she  faltered  — 

"  0,  if  I  could  but  believe  all  this  I  Is  it  not  fighting 
against  God  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a  God  yours  is.  Miss  Har- 
vey. I  believe  in  some  one  who  made  all  that !  "  and  he 
pointed  round  him  to  the  glorious  woods  and  glorious  sky. 
"  I  should  have  fancied,  from  your  speech  to  that  poor  girl, 
that  you  believed  in  him  also.  You  may,  however,  only 
believe  in  the  same  being  in  whom  the  Methodist  parson 
believes  —  one  who  intends  to  hurl  into  endless  agony  every 
human  being  who  has  not  had  a  chance  of  hearing  the  said 
preacher's  nostrum  for  delivering  men  out  of  the  hands  of 
Him  who  made  them  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Grace,  startled  alike  by 
Tom's  words,  and  the  intense  scorn  and  bitterness  of  his 
tone. 

"  That  matters  little.  What  do  you  mean,  in  turn  ? 
What  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  saving  lives  is  saving 
immortal  souls  ?  " 

"  0,  is  it  not  giving  them  time  to  repent  ?  What  will 
become  of  them,  if  they  are  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  their 
sins  ?  " 

"  If  you  had  a  son  whom  it  was  not  convenient  to  you  to 
keep  at  home,  would  his  being  a  bad  fellow  —  the  greatest 
scoundrel  on  the  earth  —  be  a  reason  for  your  turning  him 
into  the  streets  to  live  by  thieving,  and  end  by  going  to  the 
dogs  forever  and  a  day  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  I  do  not  think  that  God,  when  he  sends  a  human 
being  out  of  this  world,  is  more  cruel  than  you  or  I  would 
be.  If  we  transport  a  man  because  he  is  too  bad  to  be  in 
England,  and  he  shows  any  signs  of  mending,  we  give  him 
a  fresh  chance  in  the  colonies,  and  let  him  start  again,  to 
try  if  he  cannot  do  better  next  time.  And  do  you  fancy 
that  God,  when  he  transports  a  man  oiit  of  this  v^orld, 
nevei  gives  him  a  fresh  chance  in  another  —  especially  wheu 


248  THE   DOCTOR   AT    BAY. 

nine  out  of  ten  poor  rascals  have  never  had  a  fair  chance 
yet?" 

Grace  looked  up  in  his  face  astonished. 

"  0,  if  1  could  but  believe  that !     0  !  it  would  give  me 

some  gleam  of  hope  for  my  two  ! But  no  —  it's  not  in 

Scripture.     Where  the  tree  falls  there  it  lies." 

"  And  as  the  fool  dies,  so  dies  the  wise  man ;  and  there 
is  one  account  to  the  righteous  and  to  the  wicked.  And  a 
man  has  no  preemiuence  over  a  beast,  for  both  turn  alike  to 
dust ;  and  Solomon  does  not  know,  he  says,  or  any  one 
else,  anything  about  the  whole  matter,  or  even  whether 
there  be  any  life  after  death  at  all ;  and  so,  he  says,  the 
only  wise  thing  is  to  leave  such  deep  questions  alone,  for 
Him  who  made  us  to  settle  in  his  own  way,  and  just  to  fear 
God  and  keep  his  commandments,  and  do  the  work  which 
lies  nearest  us  with  all  our  might." 

Grace  was  silent. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  hear  me  quote  Scripture,  and  well 
you  may  be  ;  but  that  same  book  of  Ecclesiastes  is  a  very 
old  favorite  with  me  ;  for  1  am  no  Christian,  but  a  worldling, 
if  ever  there  was  one.  But  it  does  puzzle  me  why  you, 
who  are  a  Christian,  should  talk  one  half  hour  as  you  have 
been  talking  to  that  poor  girl,  and  the  next  go  for  informa- 
tion about  the  next  life  to  poor  old,  disappointed,  broken- 
hearted Solomon,  with  his  three  hundred  and  odd  idolatrous 
wives,  who  confesses  fairly  that  this  life  is  a  failure,  and  that 
he  does  not  know  whether  there  is  any  next  life  at  all." 

Whether  Tom  were  altogether  right  or  not,  is  not  the 
question  here  ;  the  novelist's  business  is  to  represent  the 
real  thoughts  of  mankind,  when  they  are  not  absolutely 
unfit  to  be  told  ;  and  certainl}''  Tom  spoke  the  doubts  of 
thousands  when  he  spoke  his  own. 

Grace  was  silent  still. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  beyond  that  I  can't  go,  being  no  the- 
ologian. But  when  a  preacher  tells  people  in  one  breath  of 
a  God  who  so  loves  men  that  he  gave  his  own  Son  to  save 
them,  and  in  the  next,  that  the  same  God  so  hates  men  that 
he  will  cast  nine  tenths  of  them  into  hopeless  torture  for- 
ever—  (and  if  that  is  not  hating,  1  don't  know  what  is), 
—  unless  he,  the  preacher,  gets  a  chance  of  talking  to  them 
for  a  few  minutes,  —  wh}-,  1  should  like.  Miss  Harvey,  to 
put  that  gentleman  upon  a  real  fire  for  ten  minutes,  instead 
of  his  comfortable  Sunday's  dinner,  which  stands  ready  fry- 
ing for  him,  and  which  he  was  going  home  to  eat,  as  jolly 
as  if  all  the  world  was  not  going  to  destruction  ;  and  there 


THE   DOCTOE   AT   BAY.  249 

let  him  feel  what  fire  was  like,  and  reconsidei  his  state- 
ments." 

Grace  looked  up  at  him  no  more ;  but  walked  on  in 
Bilence,  pondering  many  things. 

"Howsoever  that  may  be,  sir,  tell  me  what  to  do  in  this 
cholera,  and  I  will  do  it,  if  I  kill  myself  with  work  or  infec- 
tion ]  " 

"  You  shan't  do  that.  We  cannot  spare  you  from  Aber- 
alva,  Grace,"  said  Tom  ;  "  you  must  save  a  few  more  poor 
creatures,  ere  you  die,  out  of  the  hands  of  that  Good  Being 
who  made  little  children,  and  love,  and  happiness,  and  the 
flowers,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  fruitful  earth  :  and  who, 
you  say,  redeemed  them  all  again,  when  they  were  lost,  by 
an  act  of  love  which  passes  all  human  dreams." 

"  Do  not  talk  so  !  "  cried  Grace.  "  It  frightens  me  ;  it 
puzzles  me,  and  makes  me  miserable.  0,  if  you  would  but 
become  a  Christian  !  " 

"  And  listen  to  the  Gospel  ?  " 

"  Yes— 0,  yes  !  " 

"  A  gospel  means  good  news,  I  thought.  When  you 
have  any  to  tell  me,  I  will  listen.  Meanwhile,  the  news 
that  three  out  of  four  of  those  poor  fellows  down  town  are 
going  to  a  certain  place,  seems  to  me  such  terribly  bad  news, 
that  I  can't  help  fancying  that  it  is  not  the  Gospel  at  all ; 
and  so  get  on  the  best  way  I  can,  listening  to  the  good 
news  about  God  which  this  grand  old  world,  and  my  micro- 
scope, and  my  books,  tell  me.  No,  Grace,  I  have  more 
good  news  than  that,  and  I  '11  confess  it  to  you." 
.  He  paused,  and  his  voice  softened. 

"  Say  wdiat  the  preacher  may,  he  must  be  a  good  God 
who  makes  such  creatures  as  you,  and  sends  them  into  the 
world  to  comfort  .poor  wretches.  Follow  your  own  sweet 
heart,  Grace,  and  torment  yourself  no  more  with  these  dark 
dreams  !  " 

"  My  heart  ?  "  cried  she,  looking  down  ;  "  it  is  deceitful 
and  desperately  wicked." 

"  I  wish  mine  were  too,  then,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  it  cannot 
be,  as  long  as  it  is  so  uidike  yours.  Now  stop,  Grace,  I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

There  Avas  a  gate  in  front  of  them,  leading  into  the  road, 

As  they  came  to  it,  Tom  lingered  with  his  hand  upon  the 
top  bar,  that  Grace  might  stop.  She  did  stop,  half  fright 
ened.     Why  did  he  call  her  Grace  ? 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  on  one  matter,  on  wnich  I  be- 
lieve I  ought  to  have  spoken  long  ago." 


250  THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAT. 

She  looked  up  at  liini,  surprise  in  her  large  ey()s,  and 
turned  pale  as  he  went  on. 

"  I  ought  long  ago  to  have  begged  your  pardon  for  some 
thing  rude  which  1  said  to  you  at  your  own  door.  This  day 
has  made  me  (juite  ashamed  of — " 

But  she  interrupted  him,  quite  wildly,  gasping  for  breath. 

"The  belt?  The  belt?  0,  my  God  !  my  God  !  Have 
you  heard  anything  more  ?  —  anything  more  ?  '' 

"  Not  a  word  ;  but  —  " 

To  his  astonishment,  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  re- 
lieved from  a  sudden  fear.  His  face  clouded,  and  his  eye- 
brows rose.     Was  she  guilty,  then,  after  all  ? 

With  the  quick  eyes  of  love,  she  saw  the  change ;  and 
broke  out  passionately,  — 

"  Yes;  suspect  me  !  suspect  me  if  you  will  !  only  give 
me  time  1  Send  me  to  prison,  innocent  as  I  am  — innocent 
as  that  child  there  above  —  would  God  I  were  dying  like 
her  !  —  Only  give  me  time  !  —  0,  misery  !  1  had  hoped  that 
you  had  forgotten  —  that  it  was  lost  in  the  sea  —  that  — 
What  am  I  saying  ?  Only  give  me  time  !  "  and  she  dropped 
on  her  knees  before  him,  wringing  her  hands. 

"  Miss  Harvey  !  This  is  not  worthy  of  you.  If  you  be 
innocent,  as  I  don't  doubt,  what  more  do  you  need  —  or  I  ?  " 

He  took  her  hands,  and  lift(!d  her  up  ;  but  she  still  kept 
looking  down,  round,  upward,  like  a  hunted  deer,  and 
pleading  in  words  which  seemed  sobbed  out  —  as  by  some 
poor  soul  on  the  rack  —  between  choking  spasms  of  agony. 

"0,  I  don't  know,  —  God  help  me  !  0,  Lord,  help  me  1 
I  will  try  and  find  it  —  I  know  I  shall  find  it !  only  havjs 
patience  ;  have  patience  with  me  a  little,  and  I  know  I 
shall  bring  it  to  you  ;  and  then  —  and  then  you  will  for- 
give ?  —  forgive  ?  " 

And  she  laid  her  hands  upon  his  arms,  and  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  a  piteous  smile  of  entreaty. 

She  had  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  at  that  moment. 
The  devil  saw  it,  and  entered  into  the  heart  of  Thomas 
Thurnall.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms;  kissed  away  her 
tears  ;  stopped  her  mouth  with  kisses.  "  Yes  !  I  '11  wait  — 
wait  forever,  if  you  will !  I  '11  lose  another  belt  for  such 
inother  look  as  that  I  " 

She  was  bewildered  for  a  moment,  poor  fond  wretch,  at 
finding  herself  where  she  would  gladly  have  stayed  forever ; 
but  quickly  she  recovered  her  reason. 

"Let  me  go  1  "    she  cried,  struggling.      "This   is  not 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAT.  251 

right  1  Let  me  go,  sir !  "  And  she  tried  to  cover  her  burn- 
ing cheeks  with  her  hands. 

"  I  will  not,  Grace  !  I  love  you  !  I  love  you,  I  tell  you  !  " 

"  You  do  not,  sir  !  "  and  she  struggled  still  more  fiercely. 
"Do  not  deceive  yourself !  Me  you  cannot  deceive!  Let 
me  go,  I  say !  You  could  not  demean  yourself  to  love  a 
poor  girl  like  me  !  " 

Utterly  losing  his  head,  Tom  ran  on  with  passionate 
words. 

"  No,  sir  !  you  know  that  I  am  not  fit  to  be  your  ^vife  ; 
and  do  3'^ou  fancy  that  I  —  " 

Maddened  now,  Tom  went  on,  ere  he  was  aware,  from  a 
foolish  deed  to  a  base  speech. 

"  I  know  nothing,  but  that  I  shall  keep  you  in  pawn  for 
my  belt.  Till  that  is  at  least  restored,  you  are  in  my  power, 
Grace  !     Remember  that  !  " 

She  thrust  him  away  with  so  sudden  and  desperate  a 
spasm,  that  he  was  forced  to  let  her  go.  She  stood  gazing 
at  him,  a  trembling  deer  no  longer,  but  rather  a  lioness  at 
bay,  her  face  flashing  beautiful  indignation. 

"  In  your  power  !  Yes,  sir  !  My  character,  my  life,  for 
aught  1  know  ;  but  not  my  soul.  Send  me  to  Bodmin  jail 
if  you  will ;  but  oifer  no  more  insults  to  a  modest  maiden  ! 
0  !  "  —  and  her  expression  changed  to  one  of  lofty  sorrow 
and  pity,  —  "0!  to  find  all  men  alike  at  heart!  After 
having  fancied  you  —  fancied  you"  (what  she  had  fancied 
nim  her  woman's  modesty  dared  not  repeat)  —  "  to  find  you 
even  such  another  as  Mr.  Trebooze  !  " 

.  Tom  was  checked.  As  for  mere  indignation,  in  such 
cases,  he  had  seen  enough  of  that  to  trust  it  no  more  than 
"ice  that  is  one  night  old;"  but  pity  for  him  was  a 
weapon  of  defence  to  which  he  was  unaccustomed.  And 
there  was  no  contempt  in  her  pity ;  and  no  affectation 
either.  Her  voice  was  solemn,  but  tender,  gently  upbraid- 
ing, like  her  countenance.  Never  had  he  felt  Grace's  mys- 
terious attraction  so  strong  upon  him  ;  and  for  the  first  and 
last  time,  perhaps,  for  many  a  year,  he  answered  with  down- 
cast eyes  of  shame. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Harvey.  I  have  been  rude — ■ 
mad.  If  you  will  look  in  your  glass  when  you  go  home, 
and  have  a  woman's  heart  in  you,  you  may  at  least  see  an 
excuse  for  me  ;  but  like  Mr.  Trebooze  I  am  not.  Forgive 
and  forget,  and  let  us  walk  home  rationally."  And  he 
pfi'ered  to  take  her  hand. 

"  No  ;  not  now  !   Not  till  I  can  trust  you,  sir !  "   said  she. 


252  THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAT. 

The  words  were   lofty  enough  ;  but  there  was  a  profound 
melancholy  in  their  tone  which  humbled  Tom   still  more 
Was  it  possible  —  she  seemed  to  have  hinted  it  —  that  she 
had  thought  him  a  very  grand  personage  till  now,  and  that 
he  had  disgracctl  himself  in  her  eyes  ? 

If  a  man  liad  suspected  Tom  of  such  a  feeling,  I  fear  he 
would  have  cared  little,  save  how  to  restore  the  balance 
by  makinof  a  tool  of  the  man  who  fancied  him  a  fool  ;  but  no 
male  self-sufficiency  or  pride  is  proof  against  the  contempt 
of  woman  ;  and  Tom  slunk  along  by  the  schoolmistress's 
side,  as  if  he  had  been  one  other  naughtiest  school-children. 
He  tried,  of  course,  to  brazen  it  out  to  his  own  conscience. 
He  had  done  no  harm,  after  all  :  indeed,  never  seriously 
meant  any.  She  was  making  a  ridiculous  fuss  about  noth 
ing.  It  was  all  part  and  parcel  of  her  Metliodistical  cant 
He  dared  say  that  she  was  not  as  prudish  with  the  Metho- 
dist parson.  And  at  that  base  thought  he  paused  ;  for  a 
flush  of  rage,  and  a  strong  desire  on  such  hj'pothesis  to  slay 
the  said  Methodist  parson,  or  any  one  else  who  dared  even 
to  look  sweet  on  Grace,  showed  him  plainly  enough  what 
he  had  long  been  afraid  of,  that  he  was  really  in  love  with 
her  ;  and  that,  as  he  put  it,  if  she  did  not  make  a  fool  of  her- 
self about  him,  he  was  but  too  likely  to  end  in  making  a  fool 
of  himself  about  her.  However,  he  must  speak,  to  support 
his  own  character  as  a  man  of  the  world  ;  —  it  would  never 
do  to  kn(3ck  under  to  a  country-girl  in  this  way  ;  —  she 
might  go  and  boast  of  it  all  over  the  town  ;  — beside,  foiled 
or  not,  he  would  not  give  in  without  trying  her  mettle 
somewhat  further. 

"  Miss  Harvey,  will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  forgiven  you." 

"  Will  yon  forget  ?  " 

"  If  I  can  !  "  she  said,  with  a  marked  expression,  which 
signified  (though,  of  course,  she  did  not  mean  Tom  to  under- 
stand it),  "  some  of  what  is  past  is  too  precious,  and  some 
too  painful,  to  forget." 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forget  all  which  has  passed  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  tiiat  there  is  nothing  which  would  be  any 
credit  to  you,  sir,  to  have  remembered." 

"  Credit  or  none,"  said  Tom,  unabashed,  "  do  not  forget 
one  word  that  I  said." 

She  looked  hastily  and  sidelong  round,  —  "  That  I  am  iij 
your  power  ?  " 

"No!  curse  it!     I   wish  I  had   bitten  out  my  tongue 


THE   DOCTOR    AT    BAY.  253 

before  I  had  said  that !  No  !  that  I  am  in  your  power^ 
Miss  Harvey." 

"Sir  I  I  never  heard  you  say  that  ;  and  if  you  had,  the 
Booner  anything  so  untrue  is  forgotten  the  better." 

"  I  said  that  I  loved  you,  Grace  ;  and  if  that  does  not 
mean  that —  " 

"  Sir  !  Mr.  Thurnall !  I  cannot,  I  will  not  hear  !  You  only 
insult  me,  sir,  by  speaking  thus,  when  j'ou  know  that  — 
that  you  consider  me  —  a  thief!  "  and  the  poor  girl  burst 
into  tears  again. 

"  I  do  not !  I  do  not !  "  cried  Tom,  growing  really  earnest 
at  the  sight  of  her  sorrow.  "  Did  I  not  begin  this  unhappy 
talk  by  begging  your  pardon  for  ever  having  let  such  a 
thought  cross  my  mind  ?  " 

"  But  you  do  !  you  do  !  you  told  me  as  much  at  my  own 
door  ;  and  I  have  seen  it  ever  since,  till  I  have  almost  gone 
mad  under  it !  " 

"  I  will  swear  to  you  by  all  that  is  sacred  that  I  do  not ! 
0,  Grace,  the  first  moment  I  saw  you  my  heart  told  me 
that  it  was  impossible  ;  and  now,  this  afternoon,  as  I  listened 
to  you  with  that  sick  girl,  I  felt  a  wretch  for  ever  having 

Grace,  I  tell  you,  you  made  me  feel,  for  the  moment,  a 

better  man  than  I  ever  felt  in  my  life  before.  A  poor 
return  I  have  made  for  that,  truly  !  " 

Grace  looked  up  in  his  face  gasping. 

"  0,  say  that !  say  that  again.  0,  good  Lord,  merciful 
Lord,  at  last !  0,  if  you  knew  what  it  was  to  have  even  one 
weight  lifted  off,  among  all  my  heavy  burdens,  and  that 
weight  the  hardest  to  bear !  God  forgive  me  that  it  should 
have  been  so  !  0,  I  can  breathe  freely  now  again,  that  I 
know  I  am  not  suspected  by  you." 

"By  you?"  Tom  could  not  but  see  what,  after  all,  no 
human  being  can  conceal,  that  Grace  cared  for  him.  And 
the  devil  came  and  tempted  him  once  more  ;  but  this  time  it 
was  in  vain.  Tom's  better  angel  had  returned  ;  Grace's  ten- 
der guilelessness, which  would  with  too  many  men  only  have 
marked  her  out  as  the  easier  prey,  was  to  him  as  a  sacred 
shield  before  her  innocence.  So  noble,  so  enthusiastic, 
so  pure  I     He  could  not  play  the  villain  with  that  woman. 

But  there  was  plainly  a  mystery.  What  were  the  bur- 
dens, heavier  even  than  unjust  suspicion,  of  which  she  had 
spoken  ?     There  was  no  harm  in  asking. 

"But,  Grace  —  Miss  Harvey  —  you  will  not  be  angry 
with  me  if  I  ask  ?  —  why  speak  so  often,  as  if  finding  this 
money  depended  on  you  alone  ?  You  wish  me  to  recover 
22 


254  THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAY. 

it,  I  know ;  and,  if  you  can  counsel  me,  why  not  do  so  f 
Wliy  not  tell  nie  whom  you  suspect?  " 

Her  old  wild  terror  returned  in  an  instant.  She  stopped 
short  — 

"  Suspect?  I  suspect?  0,  I  have  suspected  too  many 
already  !  Suspected  till  I  began  to  hate  my  fellow-crea- 
tures—  hate  life  itself,  when  I  fancied  that  I  saw  'thief 
written  on  every  forehead.  0,  do  not  ask  me  to  suspect 
any  more  !  " 

Tom  was  silent. 

"0,"  she  cried,  after  a  moment's  pause  — "  0,  thai 
we  were  back  in  those  old  times  I  have  read  of,  when 
they  used  to  put  people  to  the  torture  to  make  them  con- 
fess !  " 

"  Why,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  " 

"  Because  then  I  should  have  been  tortured,  and  have 
confessed  it,  true  or  false,  in  the  agony,  and  have  been 
hanged.  They  used  to  hang  them  then,  and  put  them  out 
of  their  misery  ;  and  I  should  have  been  put  out  of  mine, 
and  no  one  have  been  blamed  but  me  for  evermore." 

"You  forget,"  said  Tom,  lost  in  wonder,  "that  then  I 
sliould  have  blamed  you,  as  well  as  every  one  else." 

"  True  ;  yes,  it  was  a  foolish,  faithless  word.  I  did  not 
take  it,  and  it  would  have  been  no  good  to  my  soul  to  say 
I  did.  Lies  cannot  prosper,  cannot  prosper,  Mr.  Thurnall ! " 
and  she  stopped  short  again. 

"  What,  my  dear  Grace  ?  "  said  he,  kindly  enough  ;  for 
he  began  to  fear  that  she  was  losing  her  wits. 

"  I  saved  your  life  !  " 

"  You  did,  Grace." 

"  Then,  I  never  thought  to  ask  for  payment ;  but,  0,  1 
must  now.     Will  you  promise  me  one  thing  in  return  ?  " 

"  What  you  will,  as  I  am  a  man  and  a  gentleman  ; 
I  can  trust  you  to  ask  nothing  which  is  not  worthy  of 
you." 

Tom  spoke  truth.  lie  felt  —  perhaps  love  made  him  feel 
it  all  the  more  easily  —  that,  whatever  was  behind,  he  was 
safe  in  that  woman's  hands. 

"  Then  promise  me  that  you  will  wait  one  month,  onlj 
one  month  :  ask  no  questions;  mention  nothing  to  any  living 
Boul.  And  if,  before  that  time,  I  do  not  bring  you  that  belt 
back,  send  me  to  Bodmin  jail,  and  let  me  bear  my  pun- 
ishment." 

"  I  promise,"  said  Tom.  And  the  two  walked  on  again 
in  silence,  till  they  neared  the  head  of  the  village. 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  25/^. 

Then  Grace  went  forward,  like  Nausicaa  when  she  left 
Ulysses,  lest  the  townsfolk  should  talk  ;  and  Tom  sat  down 
upon  a  bank  and  watched  her  fig-ure  vanishing  in  the  dusk 

Much  he  puzzled,  hunting  up  and  down  in  his  cunning 
head  for  an  explanation  of  the  mystery.  At  last  he  found 
one,  which  seemed  to  fit  the  facts  so  well,  that  he  rose  with 
a  whistle  of  satisfaction,  and  walked  homewards. 

Evidently,  her  mother  had  stolen  the  belt ;  and  Grace 
was,  if  not  a  repentant  accomplice,  —  for  that  he  could  not 
believe,  —  at  least  aware  of  the  fact. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  hard  knot  for  her  to  untie,  poor  child  ;  and, 
on  the  strength  of  having  saved  my  life,  she  shall  untie  it 
her  own  way.  I  can  wait.  I  hope  the  money  won't  be 
spent  meanwhile,  though,  and  the  empty  leather  returned 
to  me  when  wanted  no  longer.  However,  that 's  done 
already,  if  done  at  all.  I  was  a  fool  for  not  acting  at  once  ; 
• — a  double  fool  for  suspecting  her  !  Ass  that  I  was,  to 
take  up  with  a  false  scent,  and  throw  myself  oft'  the  true 
one  !  My  everlasting  unbelief  in  people  has  punished  itself 
this  time.  I  might  have  got  a  search-warrant  three  months 
ago,  and  had  that  old  witch  safe  in  the  bilboes.  But  no  — 
I  might  not  have  found  it,  after  all,  and  there  would  have 
been  only  an  esclandre ;  and,  if  I  know  that  girl's  heart,  she 
would  have  been  ten  times  more  miserable  for  her  mother 
than  for  herself,  —  so  it 's  as  well  as  it  is.  Besides,  it 's  really 
good  fun  to  watch  how  such  a  pretty  plot  will  work  itself 
out ;  — as  good  as  a  pack  of  harriers  with  a  cold  scent  and 
a  squatted  hare.  So,  live  and  let  live.  Only,  Thomas 
Thurnall,  if  you  go  for  to  come  for  to  go  for  to  make  such 
an  abominable  ass  of  yourself  with  that  young  lady  any 
more,  like  a  miserable  school-boy,  you  will  be  pleased  to 
make  tracks,  and  vanish  out  of  these  parts  forever  !  For 
my  purse  can't  afford  to  have  you  marrying  a  schoolmis- 
tress in  your  impoverished  old  age ;  and  my  character, 
which  also  is  my  purse,  can't  afford  worse." 

One  word  of  Grace's  had  fixed  itself  in  Tom's  memory. 
What  did  she  miean  by  "  her  two  ?  " 

He  contrived  to  ask  Willis  that  very  evening. 

"0,  don't  you  know,  sir?  She  had  a  young  brother 
drowned,  a  long  while  ago,  when  she  was  sixteen  or  so. 
He  went  out  fishing  on  the  Sabbath,  with  another  like  him, 
and  were  swamped.  Wild  young  lads  both,  as  lads  will 
be.  But  she,  sweet  maid,  took  it  so  to  heait,  that  she 
never  held  up  hei  head  since  ;  nor  will,  I  think  at  times,  to 
her  dying  day." 


256  THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAY. 

*'  Humpli !  was  slie  fond  of  the  other  lad,  then  ?  " 

"Sir,"  said  Willis,  "I  don't  think  it's  lair  like  — nol 
decent,  if  j^ou  '11  excuse  an  old  sailor  —  to  talk  about  young 
maids'  alTairs,  that  they  wouldn't  talk  of  themselves,  per- 
haps not  even  to  themselves.  So  I  never  asked  any  ques- 
tions myself." 

"  And  think  it  rude  in  me  to  ask  any.  Well,  I  believe 
you  're  right,  good  old  gentlemau  that  you  are.  WHiat  a 
nobleman  you  'd  have  made,  if  you  had  had  the  luck  to  have 
been  born  in  that  station  of  life  !  " 

"  I  have  found  it  too  much  trouble,  in  doing  my  duty  in 
my  humble  place,  to  wish  to  be  in  any  higher  one." 

"  So  !  "  thought  Tom  to  himself,  "  a  girl's  fancy  ;  but  it 
explains  so  much  in  the  character,  especially  when  the  tem- 
perament is  melancholic.  However,  to  quote  Solomon  once 
more,  '  A  live  dog  is  bettor  than  a  dead  lion  ;  '  and  I  have 
not  much  to  fear  from  a  rival  who  has  been  washed  out  of 
this  world  ten  years  since.  Heyday  I  rival !  quotha  ?  Tom 
Thurnall,  you  are  going  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  You 
must  go,  sir !  I  warn  you  1  you  must  flee,  till  you  have 
recovered  your  senses." 

There  appeared  the  next  morning  in  Tom's  shop  a  new 
phenomenon.  A  smart  youth,  dressed  in  what  he  consid- 
ered to  be  the  newest  London  fashion,  but  which  was  really 
that  translation  of  last  year's  fashion  which  happened  to  be 
current  in  the  windows  of  the  Bodmin  tailors.  Tom  knew 
him  by  sight  and  name  —  one  Mr.  Creed,  a  squireen  like 
Trebooze,  and  an  especial  friend  of  Trebooze's,  under  whose 
tutelage  he  had  learned  to  smoke  cavendish  assiduously 
from  the  age  of  fifteen,  thereby  improving  neither  his  stat- 
ure, nor  his  digestion,  his  nerves,  nor  the  intelligence  of  his 
countenance. 

He  entered  with  a  lofty  air,  and  paused  a  while  as  he 
spoke. 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  "that  Trebooze 
has  sent  me  a  challenge  ?  It  would  be  too  good  fun.  I  '11 
wait  and  see."     So  he  went  on  rolling  pills; 

"I  say,  sir,"  quoth  the  youth,  who  had  determined,  aa 
an  owner  of  land,  to  treat  the  doctor  duly  de  haul  en  has, 
and  had  a  vague  notion  that  a  liberal  use  of  the  word 
"  Sir  "  would  both  help  thereto  and  be  consonant  with  pro« 
fessional  style  of  duel  diplomacy,  wlusreof  he  had  read  in 
novels. 

Tom  turned  slowly,  and  then  took  a  hjng  look  at  him 
over   the    counter    through    half-shut    eyelids,    with    chiij 


THE    DOCTOR    AT    BAY.  257 

Upraised,  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  afflicted    with   short 
Bight,  and  worked  on  meanwhile  steadily  at  his  pills. 

"  That  is,  I  wish  —  to  speak  to  you,  sir  —  ahem  !  "  went 
on  Mr.  Creed,  being  gradually  but  surely  discomfited  by 
Tom's  steady  gaze. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,  sir;  I  see  your  case  in  your 
face.  A  slight  nervous  affection  ;  will  pass  as  the  diges- 
tion improves.  I  will  make  you  up  a  set  of  pills  for  the 
night ;  but  I  should  advise  a  little  ammonia  and  valerian  at 
once.     May  I  mix  it  ?  " 

"  Sir  !  you  mistake  me,  sir  !  " 

"Not  in  the  least;  you  have  brought  me  a  challenge 
from  Mr.  Trebooze." 

"  I  have,  sir!  "  said  the  youth,  with  a  grand  air,  at  once 
relieved  by  having  the  awful  words  said  for  him,  and  exalted 
by  the  dignity  of  his  first,  and  perhaps  last,  employment  in 
that  line. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Tom,  deliberately,  "  Mr.  Trebooze  does 
me  a  kindness  for  which  I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  him, 
and  you  also,  as  his  second.  It  is  six  full  months  since  1 
fought,  and  I  was  getting  hardly  to  know  myself  again." 

"  You  will  have  to  fight  now,  sir!  "  said  the  youth,  try- 
ing to  brazen  off  by  his  discourtesy  increasing  suspicion  that 
he  had  "caught  a  Tartar." 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  And  of  course,  too,  I  fight  you 
afterwards." 

"I  —  I,  sir?  I  am  Mr.  Trebooze's  friend,  his  second,  sir. 
I  do  not  seem  to  understand,  sir !  " 

"  Pardon  me,  young  gentleman,"  said  Tom,  in  a  very 
quiet,  determined  voice  ;  "it  is  I  who  have  a  right  to  tell 
you  that  you  do  not  understand  in  such  matters  as  these. 
I  had  fought  my  man,  and  more  than  one  of  them,  while 
you  were  eating  blackberries  in  a  short  jacket." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  quoth  the  youth  in  fury  ;  and 
began  swearing  a  little. 

"  Siirple  fact.  Are  you  not  about  twenty-three  years 
old  ?  " 

"What  is  that  to  you,  sir?  " 

"No  business  of  mine,  of  course.  You  may  be  growing 
into  your  second  childhood  for  aught  I  care  ;  but  if,  as  1 
eruess,  you  are  about  Iwentj^-three,  1,  as  I  know,  am  thirty- 
six  ;  then  I  fought  my  first  duel  when  you  were  five  years 
old,  and  my  tenth,  I  should  say,  when  you  were  fifteen  :  at 
which  time,  I  suppose,  you  were  not  ashamed  either  of  the 
jacket  or  the  blackberries." 
22* 


258  THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY. 

"You  will  find  me  a  man  now,  sir,  at  all  events,"  said 
Creed,  justly  wroth  at  what  was,  after  all,  a  sophism  ;  foi 
if  a  man  is  not  a  man  at  twenty,  he  never  will  be  one. 

"  Tanl  niieux.  You  know,  1  suppose,  that,  as  the  chal- 
lenged, I  have  the  choice  of  weapons?  " 

"  Of  course,  sir,"  said  Creed,  in  an  off-hand,  generous 
tone,  because  lieTlid  not  very  clearly  know. 

"  Then,  sir,  I  always  fight  across  a  handkerchief.  You 
will  tell  Mr.  Trebooze  so  ;  he  is,  I  really  believe,  a  brave 
man,  and  will  accept  the  terms.  You  will  tell  yourself  the 
same,  whether  you  be  a  brave  man  or  not." 

The  youth  lost  the  last  words  in  those  which  went  before 
them.  He  was  no  coward  ;  would  have  stood  up  to  be  shot 
at,  at  fifteen  paces,  like  any  one  else  ;  but  the  deliberate 
butchery  of  fighting  across  a  handkerchief — 

"  Do  I  understand  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  whether  you  are  clever  enough,  or 
not,  to  comprehend  your  native  tongue.  Across  a  hand- 
kerchief, I  say  ;  do  you  hear  that  ?  "  and  Tom  rolled  on  at 
his  pills. 

"I  do." 

"  And  when  I  have  fought  him,  I  fight  you !  "  and  the 
pills  rolled  steadily  at  the  same  pace. 

"  But  —  sir  ?  —  why —  sir  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Tom,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  "be- 
cause you,  calling  yourself  a  gentleman,  and  being,  more 
shame  for  you,  one  by  birth,  dare  to  come  here,  for  a  fool- 
ish, vulgar  superstition  called  honor,  to  ask  me,  a  quiet 
medical  man,  to  go  and  be  shot  at  by  a  man  whom  you 
know  to  be  a  drunken,  profligate,  blackguard,  simply  be- 
cause, as  you  know  as  well  as  I,  I  interfered  to  prevent  his 
insulting  a  poor  helpless  girl,  and  in  so  doing  was  forced  to 
give  him  what  you,  if  you  are  (as  I  believe)  a  gentleman, 
would  have  given  iiiin  also,  in  my  place." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  sir!  "  said  the  lad,  blushing  all 
the  while,  as  one  honestly  conscience-stricken  ;  for  Tom 
had  spoken  the  exact  truth,  and  he  knew  it. 

"  Don't  lie,  sir,  and  tell  me  that  you  don't  understand  ; 
you  understand  every  word  which  I  have  spoken,  and  you 
know  that  it  is  true." 

"Lie?" 

"  Yes,  lie.     Look  you,  sir  ;  I  have  no  wish  to  fight — " 

"You  will  fight,   though,  whether  you  wish  it  or  not,' 
said  the  youth,  with  a  hysterical  laugh,  meant  to  be  defiant 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  259 


ii 


But  —  I  can   snuff  a  caudle  :  I  can  split  a  bullet  cm  a 
penknife  at  fifteen  paces." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  frighten  us  by  boasting  ?  We  shall  see 
what  you  can  do  when  you  come  on  the  ground." 

"  Across  a  handkerchief,  but  on  no  other  condition  ;  and, 
unless  you  will  accept  that  condition,  I  will  assuredly,  the 
next  time  I  see  you,  be  we  where  we  may,  treat  you  as  I 
treated  your  friend  Mr.  Trebooze.  —  I  '11  do  it  now  !  Get 
out  of  my  shop,  sir  !  What  do  you  want  here,  interfering 
with  my  honest  business  ?  " 

And,  to  the  astonishment  of  Mr.  Trebooze's  second,  Tom 
vaulted  clean  over  the  counter,  and  rushed  at  him  open- 
mouthed. 

Sacred  be  the  honor  of  the  gallant  West  country  ;  but, 
"  both  being  friends,"  as  Aristotle  has  it,  "  it  is  a  sacred 
duty  to  speak  the  truth."  Mr.  Creed  vanished  through  the 
open  door. 

"  I  rid  myself  of  the  fellow  jollily,"  said  Tom  to  Frank 
that  day,  after  telling  him  the  whole  story.  "  And  no 
credit  to  me.  I  saw  from  the  minute  he  came  in  there  was 
no  fight  in  him." 

"  But,  suppose  he  had  accepted,  or  suppose  Trebooze 
accepts  still  ?  " 

"There  was  my  game  —  to  frighten  hira.  He'll  take 
care  Trebooze  shan't  fight,  for  he  knows  that  he  must  fight 
next.  He  '11  go  home  and  patch  the  matter  up,  trust  him. 
Meanwhile,  the  oaf  had  not  even  savoir  /aire  enough  to 
ask  for  my  second.  Lucky  for  me  ;  for  I  don't  know  where 
to  have  found  one,  save  the  lieutenant ;  and,  though  he 
would  have  gone  out  safe  enough,  it  would  have  been  a 
bore  for  the  good  old  fellow." 

"  And,"   said   Frank,  utterly  taken  aback  by  Tom's  busi 
ness-like  levity,  "you  would  actually  have  stood  to  shoot, 
and  be  shot  at,  across  a  handkerchief?  " 

Tom  stuck  out  his  great  chin,  and  looked  at  him  with  one 
of  his  quaint  sidelong  moA'es.  , 

"  You  are  my  very  good  friend,  sir,  but  not  my  father- 
confessor." 

•'  I  know  that ;  but,  really,  as  a  mere  question  of  human 
curiosity — " 

"0,  if  you  ask  me  on  the  human  ground,  and  not  on  the 
Bacerdotal,  I  '11  tell  you.  1  've  tried  it  twice,  and  I  should 
be  sorry  to  try  it  again  ;  though  it 's  a  very  easy  dodge. 
Keep  your  right  elbow  up  —  up  to   your   ear,  —  and,  th<» 


260  THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY. 

moment  you  heai  the  word,  fire.  A  liigli  elbow  and  a  cool 
iieart  —  that 's  all ;  and  that  wins." 

"  Wins?  Good  heavens!  As  you  are  here  alive,  you 
must  liave  killed  your  man  ?  " 

"  No.  I  oidy  shot  my  men  each  through  the  body  ;  and 
each  of  them  deserved  it ;  but  it  is  an  ugly  chance  ;  I  should 
have  been  sorry  to  try  it  on  that  yokel.  The  boy  may  make 
a  man  3'et.  And  what 's  more,"  said  Tom,  bursting  into  a 
great  laugh,  "  he  will  make  a  man,  and  go  down  to  his 
fathers  in  peace,  quant  a  moi ;  and  so  will  tliat  wretched 
Trebooze.  For  I  '11  bet  you  my  head  to  a  China  orange,  I 
hear  no  mrre  of  this  matter  ;  and  don't  even  lose  Trebooze's 
custom." 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  envy  your  sanguine  temperament!  " 

"  Mr.  Headley,  1  shall  quietly  make  my  call  at  Trebooze 
to-morrow,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  What  will  you 
bet  me  that  I  am  not  received  as  usual?  " 

"  I  never  bet,"  said  Frank. 

"Then  you  do  well.  It  is  a  foolish  and  a  dirty  trick  ; 
plaj'ing  with  edge-tools,  and  cutting  one's  own  fingers. 
Nevertheless,  I  speak  truth,  as  you  will  see." 

"  You  are  a  most  extraordinary  man.  All  this  is  so  con- 
trary to  your  usual  caution." 

"  When  you  are  driven  against  the  ropes,  'hit  out,'  is 
the  old  rule  of  Fistiana  and  common  sense.  It  is  an  extreme 
bore  ;  all  the  more  reason  for  showing  such  an  ugly  front, 
as  to  give  people  no  chance  of  its  happening  again.  Noth- 
ing so  dangerous  as  half  measures,  Headley.  '  Resist  the 
devil,  and  he  will  flee  from  you,'  your  creed  says.  Miue 
only  translates  it  into  practice." 

"  I  have  no  liking  for  half  measures  myself" 

"  Did  3'ou  ever,"  said  Tom,  "  hear  the  story  of  the  two 
Sandhurst  broomsquires  ?  " 

"  Broomsquires  ? " 

"  So  we  call,  in  Berkshire,  squatters  on  the  moor  who 
live  by  tjing  heath  into  broon»s.  Two  of  them  met  in  Read- 
ing market  once,  and  fell  out :  — 

"  '  IIow  ever  do  you  manage  to  sell  your  brooms  for 
three-halfpence  ?  I  steals  the  heth,  and  I  steals  the  binds, 
and  I  steals  the  handles  ;  and  yet  I  can't  aford  to  sell  'em 
under  twopence.' 

"  '  Ah,  but  you  see,'  says  the  other,  '  I  steals  mine  ready 
made.' 

"  Moral  —  If  you  're  going  to  do  a  thing,  do  it  outright.''' 

That  very  evening,  Tom  came  in  again. 


THE   DOCTOR   AT   BAY.  261 

"  Well ;  I  've  been  to  Trebooze." 

"  And  fared,  how  ?  " 

"  Just  as  I  warned  you.  Inquired  into  his  symptoms  ; 
prescribed  for  his  digestion  —  if  he  goes  on  as  he  is  doing, 
he  will  soon  have  none  left  to  prescribe  for ;  and,  finally, 
plastered,  with  a  sublime  generosity,  the  nose  which  my 
own  knuckles  had  contused." 

"  Impossible  !  you  are  the  most  miraculously  impudent 
of  men  !  " 

"  Pish  !  simple  common  sense.  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Tre- 
booze  would  suspect  that  the  world  had  heard  of  his  mishap, 
and  took  care  to  let  her  know  that  I  knew,  by  coming  up 
to  inquire  for  him." 

"  Guibono?" 

"  Power.  To  have  them,  or  any  one,  a  little  more  in  my 
power.  Next,  I  knew  that  he  dared  not  fly  out  at  me,  for 
fear  I  should  tell  Mrs.  Trebooze  what  he  had  been  after  — 
you  see .''  Ah !  it  was  delicious,  to  have  the  great  oaf 
sitting  sulking  under  my  fingers,  longing  to  knock  my  head 
off,  and  I  plastering  away,  with  words  of  deepest  astonish- 
ment and  condolence.  I  verily  believe  that,  before  we 
parted,  I  had  persuaded  him  that  his  black  eye  proceeded 
entirely  from  his  having  run  up  against  a  tree  in  the  dark." 

"Well,"  said  Frank,  half  sadly,  though  enjoying  the  joke 
in  spite  of  himself,  "  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  would  have 
been  a  fit  moment  for  giving  the  poor  wretch  a  more  solemn 
lesson." 

"My  dear  sir,  a  good  licking  —  and  he  had  one,  and 
Bomething  over  —  is  the  best  lesson  for  that  manner  of 
biped.  That 's  the  way  to  school  him  ;  but,  as  we  aro  on 
lessons,  I  '11  give  you  a  hint." 

"  Go  on,  model  of  self-sufficiency  !  "  said  Frank. 

"  Scoff  at  me  if  you  will,  I  am  proof  But  hearken  —  you 
must  n't  turn  out  that  schoolmistress.  She  's  an  angel,  and 
1  know  it ;  and  if  I  sa}^  so  of  any  human  being,  you  may  be 
Bure  T  have  pretty  good  reasons." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  be  of  your  mind  myself,"  said 
Frank 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE    CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

The  middle  of  August  is  come  at  last ;  and  -yith  it  the 
Bolemn  day  on  which  Frederick  Viscount  Scoutbush  may  be 
expected  to  revisit  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  Elsley  has 
gradually  made  up  his  mind  to  the  inevitable,  with  a  stately 
sulkiness  ;  and  comforts  himself,  as  the  time  draws  near, 
with  the  thought  tliat,  after  all,  his  brother-in-law  is  not  a 
very  formidable  personage. 

But,  to  the  population  of  Aberalva  in  general,  the  coming 
event  is  one  of  awful  jubilation.  The  shipping  is  all  decked 
with  flags  ;  all  the  Sunday  clothes  have  been  looked  out, 
and  many  a  yard  of  new  ribbon  and  pound  of  bad  powder 
bought ;  there  have  been  arrangements  for  a  procession, 
which  could  not  be  got  up  ;  for  a  speech,  which  nobody 
would  undertake  to  pronounce  ;  and,  lastly,  for  a  dinner, 
about  which  last  there  was  no  hanging  back.  Yea,  also, 
they  have  hired  from  Carcarrow  Church-town,  sackbut, 
psaltery,  dulcimer,  and  all  kinds  of  music;  for  Frank  haa 
put  down  the  old  choir  band  at  Aberalva,  —  another  of  his 
mistakes,  — and  there  is  but  one  fiddle  and  a  clarionet  now 
left  in  all  the  town.  So  the  said  town  waits  all  the  day  on 
tiptoe,  ready  to  worship,  till  out  of  the  soft  brown  haze  the 
stately  Waterwitch  comes  sliding  in,  like  a  white  ghost,  to 
fold  her  wings  in  Alberalva  bay. 

And  at  that  sight  the  town  is  all  astir.  Fialiermen  shake 
themselves  up  out  of  their  mid-day  snooze,  to  admire  the 
beauty,  as  she  slips  on  and  on  through  water  smooth  as 
glass,  her  hull  hidden  by  the  vast  curve  of  tlie  balloon-jib, 
and  her  broad  wings  boomed  out  alow  and  aloft,  till  it  seems 
marvellous  how  that  vast  screen  does  not  topple  headlong, 
instead  of  floating  (as  it  seems)  self-supported  above  its 
image  in  the  mirror.  Women  hurry  to  put  on  their  best 
bonnets  ;  the  sexton  toddles  up  with  the  church-key  in  his 
hand,  and  the  ringers  at  his  heels  ;  the  coast-guard  lieuten- 
ant bustles  down  to  the  Manby's  mortar,   which  he  has 

(262) 


THE    CRUISE   OF   THE   WATEEWITCH.  ii63 

hauled  out  in  readiness  on  the  pebbles.  Old  Willis  hoists 
a  flag  before  his  house,  and  half  a  dozen  merchant-skippers 
do  the  same.  Bang  goes  the  harmless  mortar,  burning  the 
British  nation's  powder  without  leave  or  license  ;  and  all 
the  rocks  and  woods  catch  up  the  echo,  and  kick  it  from 
cliff  to  cliff,  playing  at  football  with  it  till  its  breath  is 
beaten  out ;  a  rolling  fire  of  old  muskets  and  bird-pieces 
crackles  along  the  shore,  and  in  five  minutes  a  poor  lad  has 
blown  a  ramrod  through  his  hand.  Never  mind,  lords  do 
not  visit  Penalva  every  day.  Out  burst  the  bells  above 
with  merry  peal ;  Lord  Scoutbush  and  the  Waterwitch  are 
duly  "rung  in"  to  the  home  of  his  lordship's  ancestors  ; 
and  he  is  received,  as  he  scrambles  up  the  pier  steps  from 
his  boat,  by  the  curate,  the  church-wardens,  the  lieutenant, 
and  old  Tardrew,  backed  by  half  a  dozen  ancient  sons  of 
Anak,  lineal  descendants  of  the  free  fishei'men  to  whom,  six 
hundred  years  before,  St.  Just  of  Penalva  did  grant  privi- 
leges hard  to  spell,  and  harder  to  understand,  on  the 
condition  of  receiving,  whensoever  he  should  land  at  the 
quay  head,  three  brass  farthings  from  the  "free  fishermen 
of  Aberalva." 

Scoutbush  shakes  hands  with  curate,  lieutenant,  Tardrew 
church-wardens  ;  and  then  come  forward  the  three  farthings, 
in  an  ancient  leather  purse, 

"  Hope  your  lordship  will  do  us  the  honor  to  shake  handa 
with  us,  too  ;  we  are  your  loi'dship's  fx'ee  fishermen,  as  we 
have  been  your  forefathers',"  says  a  magnificent  old  man, 
gracefully  acknowledging  the  feudal  tie,  while  he  claims 
the  exemption. 

Little  Scoutbush,  who  is  the  kindest-hearted  of  men, 
clasps  the  great  brown  fist  in  his  little  white  one,  and 
shakes  hands  heai'tily  with  every  one  of  them,  saying:  "  If 
your  forefathers  were  as  much  taller  than  mine,  as  you  are 
than  me,  gentlemen,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  took  their 
own  freedom,  without  asking  his  leave  for  it !  " 

A  lord  who  begins  his  progress  with  a  jest !  That  is  the 
Bort  of  aristocrat  to  rule  in  Aberalva  !  And  all  agree  that 
evening,  at  the  Mariners'  Rest,  that  his  lordship  is  as  nice 
a  young  gentleman  as  ever  trod  deal  board,  and  desei'ves 
Buch  a  yacht  as  he  's  got,  and  long  may  he  sail  her ! 

How  easy  it  is  to  buy  the  love  of  men  !  Gold  will  not 
do  it ;  but  there  is  a  little  angel,  or  may  be,  in  the  corner 
of  every  man's  eye,  who  is  worth  more  than  gold,  and  can 
do  it  free  of  all  charges  ;  unless  a  man  drives  him  out,  and 
"bates  his  brother,  and  so  walks  in  darkness,  not  know 


261:  THE    CRUISE    OP   THE    WATERWITCH. 

ing  whither  he  goeth,"  but  running  full  butt  against  men's 
prejudices,  and  treading  on  their  corns,  till  they  knock  him 
down  in  despair  —  and  all  just  because  he  will  not  open  his 
eyes,  and  use  the  light  which  comes  by  common  human 
good-nature  ! 

Presently  Tom  hurries  up,  having  been  originally  one  of 
the  deputation,  but  kept  by  the  necessity  of  binding  up  the 
three  fingers  which  the  ramrod  had  spared  to  poor  Jem 
Burman's  hand.  He  bows,  and  the  lieutenant  —  who 
(Frank  being  a  little  shy)  acts  as  her  majesty's  representa- 
tive—  introduces  him  as  "deputy  medical  man  to  our 
district  of  the  union,  sir — Mr.  Thurnall." 

"  Dr.  Ileale  was  to  have  been  here,  by-the-by.  Where 
is  Dr.  Heale  ?  ''  says  some  one. 

"Very  fjony,  my  lord  ;  I  can  answer  for  him — profes- 
Bional  calls,  I  don't  doubt — nobody  more  devoted  to  your 
lordship." 

One  need  not  inquire  where  Dr.  Heale  was  ;  but  if  elderly 
men  will  drink  much  brandy  and  water  in  hot  summer  days, 
after  a  heavy  early  dinner,  then  will  those  men  be  too  late 
both  for  deputations  and  for  more  important  employments. 

"  Never  mind  the  doctor ;  dare  say  he's  asleep  after  din- 
ner ;  do  him  good  ! "  says  the  viscount,  hitting  the  mark 
with  a  random  shot ;  and  thereby  raising  his  repute  for 
eagacity  immensely  with  his  audience,  who  laugh  outright. 

"  Ah  !  Is  it  so,  then  ?  But—  Mr.  Thurnall,  I  think  you 
said  ?  —  I  am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir.  I  have 
heard  your  name  often  ;  you  are  my  friend  Mellot's  old 
friend,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  very  old  friend  of  Claude  Mellot's." 

"  Well,  and  there  he  is  on  board,  and  will  be  delighted 
to  do  the  honors  of  my  yacht  to  you  whenever  you  like  to 
visit  her.     You  and  I  must  know  each  other  better,  sir  !  " 

Tom  bows  low  —  his  lordship  does  him  too  much  honor  ; 
the  cunning  fullow  knows  that  his  fortune  is  made  in  Abe- 
ralva,  if  he  chooses  to  work  it  out ;  but  he  humbly  slips  into 
the  rear,  for  Frank  has  to  be  supported,  not  being  over 
popular  :  and  the  lieutenant  may  "  turn  crusty,"  unless  he 
has  his  lordsiiip  to  himself,  before  the  gaze  of  assembled 
Aberalva. 

Scoutbush  progresses  up  the  street,  bowing  right  and 
left,  and  stopped  half  a  dozen  times  by  red-cloaked  old 
women,  who  curtsey  under  his  nose,  and  will  needs  inform 
nim  how  tliey  knew  his  grandfather,  or  nursed  his  uncle,  oi 
bow  his  "  dear  mother,  God  rest  her  soul,  gave  me  this  very 


THE  CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  26>f) 

cloak  as  I  have  on,"  and  so  forth  ;  till  Scoutbush  comes  to 
the  conclusion  that  they  are  a  very  loving  and  lovable  set 
of  people  —  as  indeed  they  are  —  and  his  heart  smites  him 
somewhat  for  not  having  seen  more  of  them  in  j  ast  years. 

No  sooner  is  Thurnall  released,  than  he  is  off  to  the  yacht 
as  fast  as  oars  can  take  him,  and  in  Claude's  arms. 

"  Now  !  "  (after  all  salutations  and  inquiries  have  been 
gone  tlirough),  "  Let  me  introduce  you  to  5lajor  Campbell." 
And  Tom  was  presented  to  a  tall  and  thin  personage,  who 
eat  at  the  cabin  table,  bending  over  a  microscope. 

"Excuse  my  i;ising,"  said  he,  holding  out  a  left  hand, 
for  the  right  was  busy.  "  A  single  jar  will  give  me  ten 
minutes'  work  to  do  again.  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you  ; 
Mellot  has  often  spoken  to  me  of  you  as  a  man  who  has 
seen  more,  and  faced  death  more  carelessly  than  most 
men." 

"Mellot  flatters,  sir.  Whatsoever  I  have  done,  I  have 
given  up  being  careless  about  death  ;  for  I  have  some  one 
beside  myself  to  live  for." 

"  Married  at  last  ?  Has  Diogenes  found  his  Aspasia  ?  " 
cried  Claude. 

To-ra  did  not  laugh. 

"  Since  my  brothers  died,  Claude,  the  old  gentleman  has 
c>nly  me  to  look  to.     You  seem  to  be  a  naturalist,  sir." 

"  A  dabbler,"  said  the  major,  with  eye  and  hand  still 
busy. 

"  I  ought  not  to  begin  our  acquaintance  by  doubting 
your  word  ;  but  these  things  are  no  dabbler's  work  ;  "  and 
Tom  pointed  to  some  exquisite  photographs  of  minute  coral- 
lines, evidently  taken  under  the  microscope. 

"  Tliey  are  Mellot's." 

"  Mellot  turned  man  of  science  ?     Impossible  !  " 

"  No  ;  only  photographer.  I  am  tired  of  painting  nature 
clumsily,  and  then  seeing  a  sun-picture  outdo  all  my  efforts 
—  so  1  am  turned  photographer,  and  have  made  a  vow 
against  painting  for  three  years  and  a  day." 

"  Why,  the  photographs  only  give  you  light  and  shade." 

"  They  will  give  you  color,  too,  before  seven  years  are 
over  —  and  that  is  more  than  I  can  do,  or  any  one  else.  No  ; 
I  yield  to  the  new  dynasty.  The  artist's  occupation  is  gone 
hencef)rth,  and  the  painter's  studio,  like  'all  charms,  must 
fly,  at  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy.'  So  Major 
Campbell  prepares  the  charming  little  cockyoly  birds,  and 
I  call  the  sun  in  to  immortalize  them." 

"And  perfectly  3'ou  are  succeeding!  They  are  quite 
'  2;5 


2G6  THE   CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

new  to  me,  recollect.  When  I  loft  Melbourne,  the  art  had 
hardly  risen  there  aliove  guinea  portraits  of  bearded  despe- 
radoes, a  nugget  in  one  hand,  and  a  60/.  note  in  the  other  ; 
but  this  is  a  new,  and  what  a  forward  step  for  sc;ionce  !  '" 

"  You  are  a  naturalist,  tiien  ?  "  said  Campbell,  looking  up 
with  interest. 

"  All  my  profession  are,  more  or  less,"  said  Tom,  care- 
lessly ;  "  and  1  have  been  lucky  enough  here  to  fall  on 
untrodden  ground,  and  have  hunted  up  a  few  sea-monsters 
this  summer." 

"Really?  You  can  tell  one  where  to  search  then,  and 
where  to  dredge,  I  hope.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  a  fort- 
night's work  here,  and  have  been  dreaming  at  night,  like  a 
child  before  a  Twelfth-night  party,  of  all  sorts  of  impossible 
hydras,  gorgons,  and  chimeras  dire,  fished  up  from  your 
western  deeps." 

"  I  have  none  of  them  ;  but  I  can  give  you  Turbinolia 
Milletiana  and  Zoanthus  Couchii.  I  have  a  party  of  the 
last  gentlemen  alive  on  shore." 

The  major's  face  worked  with  almost  childish  delight. 

"  But  I  shall  be  robbing  you." 

"  They  cost  me  nothing,  my  dear  sir.  I  did  very  well, 
moreover,  without  them,  for  five-and-thirty  years  ;  and  I 
may  do  equally  well  for  five-and-thirty  more." 

"  I  ought  to  be  able  to  say  the  same,  surely,"  answered 
the  major,  composing  his  lace  again,  and  rising  carefully. 
"  I  have  to  thank  you  exceedingly,  my  dear  sir,  for  your 
prompt  generosity  ;  but  it  is  better  discipline  for  a  man,  in 
many  ways,  to  find  things  for  himself  than  to  have  them 
put  into  his  hands.  So,  with  a  thousand  thanks,  you  shall 
let  me  see  if  I  can  dredge  a  Turbinolia  for  myself" 

This  was  spoken  with  so  sweet  and  polished  a  modulation, 
and  yet  so  sadly  and  severely  withal,  that  Tom  looked  at 
the  speaker  with  interest. 

lie  was  a  very  tall  and  powerful  man,  and  would  have 
been  a  very  haiidsome  man,  both  in  face  and  figure,  but  for 
the  high  cheekbone,  long  neck,  and  narrow  shoulders,  so 
often  seen  north  of  Tweed.  His  brow  was  very  high  and 
full  ;  his  eyes  —  grave,  but  very  gentle,  with  large  droop- 
ing eyelids  —  were  buried  under  shaggy  gray  eyebrows. 
His  mouth  was  gentle  as  his  eyes  ;  but  compressed,  per- 
haps by  the  habit  of  command,  perhaps  by  secret  sorrow  ; 
for,  of  that,  too,  as  well  as  of  intellect  and  magnanimity, 
Thurnall  thought  he  could  discern  the  traces.  His  face 
was?    bronzed   by  long  exposure  to  the  sun  ;  his  closecut 


or.n 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH.  20 

curls,  which  had  once  been  aufcnrn,  were  fast  turning  white, 
though  his  features  looked  those  of  a  man  under  five-aud- 
forty  ;  his  cheeks  were  as  smooth-shaven  as  his  chin.  A 
right,  self-possessed,  valiant  soldier  he  looked  ;  one  who 
could  be  very  loving  to  little  innocents,  and  very  terrible  to 
full-grown  knaves. 

"You  are  practising  at  self-denial,  as  usual,"  said  Claude. 

"  Because  I  may,  at  any  moment,  have  to  exercise  it  in 
earnest.  Mr.  Thurnall,  can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  this 
little  glass  arrow,  which  I  just  found  shooting  about  in  the 
sweeping-net  ?  " 

Tom  did  know  the  wonderful  little  link  between  the  fish 
and  the  insect ;  and  the  two  chatted  over  its  strange  form 
till  the  boat  returned  to  take  them  ashore. 

"  Do  you  make  any  stay  here  ?  " 

"  I  purpose  to  spend  a  fortnight  here  in  ray  favorite  pur- 
suit. I  must  draw  on  your  kindness  and  knowledge  of  the 
place  to  point  me  out  lodgings." 

Lodgings,  as  it  befell,  were  to  be  found,  and  good  ones, 
close  to  the  beach,  and  away  from  the  noise  of  the  harbor, 
on  Mrs.  Harvey's  first  floor  ;  for  the  local  preacher,  who 
generally  occupied  them,  was  away. 

"  But  Major  Campbell  might  dislike  the  noise  of  the 
school ? " 

"  The  school  ?  What  better  music  for  a  lonely  old  bach- 
elor than  children's  voices  ?  " 

So,  by  sunset,  the  major  was  fairly  established  over  Mrs, 
Harvey's  shop.  It  was  not  the  place  which  Tom  would 
have  chosen  ;  he  was  afraid  of  "  running  over  "  poor  Grace, 
if  he  came  in  and  out  as  often  as  he  could  have  wished. 
Nevertheless,  he  accepted  the  major's  invitation  to  visit 
him  that  very  evening. 

"  I  cannot  ask  you  to  dinner  yet,  sir,  for  my  menage  will 
be  hardly  settled  ;  but  a  cup  of  coffee  and  an  exceedingly 
good  cigar  I  think  my  establishment  may  furnish  you  by 
seven  o'clock  to-night,  if  you  think  them  worth  walking 
down  for." 

Tom,  of  course,  said  something  civil,  and  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  due  time.  He  found  the  coffee  ready,  and  the 
cigars  also  ;  but  the  major  was  busy,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
unpacking  and  arranging  jars,  nets,  microscopes,  and  what 
not  of  scientific  lumber  ;  and  Tom  proffered  his  help. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  make  use  of  you  the  first  moment  that 
you  become  my  guest.'" 

"  I  shall  enjoy  the  more  handling  of  your  tackle,"  said 


268  THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH. 

Tom  ;  and  began  breaking  the  tenth  commandment  over  al 
most  every  article  he  touclied  ;  for  everytliing  was  first-rate 
of  its  kind. 

"  You  seem  to  have  devoted  money,  as  well  as  tliought. 
plentifully  to  the  pursuit." 

"  1  have  little  else  to  which  to  devote  either  ;  and  more 
of  both  tlian  is,  porliaps,  safe  for  me." 

"I  should  hardly  complain  of  a  superfluity  of  thought, 
if  superfluity  of  money  was  the  condition  of  it." 

"  Pray  understand  me.  1  am  no  Dives ;  but  I  have 
learned  to  want  so  little  that  I  hardly  know  how  to  spend 
the  little  which  1  have." 

"  I  should  hardly  have  called  that  an  unsafe  state." 

"The  penniless  Faquir  who  lives  on  chance  handfuls  of 
rice  has  his  dangers,  as  well  as  the  rich  Parsee  who  has  his 
ventures  out  from  Madagascar  to  Canton.  Yes,  I  have 
often  envied  the  schemer,  the  man  of  business,  almost  the 
man  of  pleasure  ;  their  many  wants  at  least  absorb  them  in 
outward  objects,  instead  of  leaving  them  too  easily  satisfied, 
to  sink  in  upon  themselves,  and  waste  away  in  useless 
dreams." 

"  You  found  out  the  best  cure  for  that  malady  when  you 
took  up  the  microscope  and  the  collecting-box." 

"  So  I  fancied  once.  I  took  up  natural  history  in  India, 
years  ago,  to  drive  away  thought,  as  other  men  might  take 
to  opium,  or  to  brandy-pawnee  ;  but,  like  them,  it  has  be- 
come a  passion  now  and  a  tyranny ;  and  I  go  on  hunting, 
discovering,  wondering,  craving  for  more  knowledge  ;  and 
—  cui  bono?  I  sometimes  ask  —  " 

"  Why,  this,  at  least,  sir  ;  that,  without  such  men  as  you, 
who  work  for  mere  love.  Science  would  be  now  fifty  years 
behind  her  present  standing-point;  and  we  doctors  should 
not  know  a  thousand  important  facts,  which  you  have  been 
kind  enough  to  tell  us,  while  we  have  not  time  to  find  them 
out  for  ourselves." 

"  Sic  vus  non  vobis  —  " 

"Yes,  you  have  the  work,  and  we  have  the  pay  ;  which 
is  a  very  fair  division  of  labor,  considering  the  world  we 
live  in." 

"  And  have  you  been  skilful  enough  to  make  science  pay 
you  here,  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  little  world  as  that  of 
Aberalva  must  be  ?  " 

"  Siie  is  a  good  stalking-horse  anywhere  ;  "  and  Tom  de- 
tailed, with  plenty  of  humor,  the  effect  of  his  microscope 
and  his  lecture  on  the  drops  of  water.     But  his  wit  seemed 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    vVATERWITCH.  2()9 

BO  much  lost  on  Campbell,  that  he  at  last  stopped  all  but 
short,  not  quite  sure  that  he  had  not  taken  a  liberty. 

"  No  ;  go  on,  I  beg  you  ;  and  do  not  fancy  that  I  am  not 
interested  and  amused  too,  because  my  laug-liing  muscles 
are  a  little  stiff  from  want  of  use.  Perhaps,  too,  I  am  apt 
to  take  tilings  too  much  ait  grand  serieux ;  but  I  could  not 
help  thinking,  while  you  were  speaking,  how  sad  it  was 
that  people  were  utterly  ignorant  of  matters  so  vitall}'  neces- 
sary to  health." 

"  And  I,  perhaps,  ought  not  to  jest  over  the  subject ;  but, 
indeed,  with  cholera  staring  us  in  the  face  here,  I  must  in- 
dulge in  some  emotion  ;  and,  as  it  is  unprofessional  to  weep, 
I  must  laugh  as  long  as  I  dare." 

The  major  dropped  his  coffee-cup  upon  the  floor,  and 
looked  at  Thurnall  with  so  horrified  a  gaze,  that  Tom  could 
hardly  believe  him  to  be  the  same  man.  Then,  recollecting 
himself,  he  darted  down  upon  the  remains  of  liis  cup  ;  and, 
looking  up  again,  —  "A  thousand  pardons;  but  —  did  I 
hear  you  aright  ?  —  cholera  staring  us  in  the  face  ?  " 

"  How  can  it  be  otherwise?  It  is  drawing  steadily  on 
from  the  eastward  week  b}^  week  ;  and,  in  the  present  state 
of  the  town,  nothing  but  some  miraculous  caprice  of  Dame 
Fortune's  can  deliver  us." 

"  Don't  talk  of  fortune,  sir,  at  such  a  moment !  Talk  of 
God  !  "  said  the  major,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  pacing  the 
room.  "  It  is  too  horrible  !  — intolerable  I  When  do  you 
expect  it  here  ?  " 

"  Within  the  month,  perhaps,  —  hardly  before.  I  should 
have  warned  you  of  the  danger,  I  assure  you,  had  I  not 
understood  from  you  that  you  were  only  going  to  stay  a 
fortnight." 

The  major  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Do  you  fancy  that  I  am  afraid  for  myself?  No  ;  but 
the  thought  of  its  coming  to  —  to  the  poor  people  in  the 
town,  you  know.  It  is  too  dreadful !  I  have  seen  it  in 
India  —  among  my  own  men  —  among  the  natives.  Good 
heavens  !  I  never  shall  forget  —  and  to  meet  the  fiend  again 
here,  of  all  places  in  the  world  !  I  fancied  it  so  clean,  and 
healthy,  swept  by  fresh  sea-breezes." 

"  And  by  nothing  else  ?  A  half-hour's  walk  round  would 
convince  you,  sir  :  I  only  wish  that  you  could  persuade  hia 
lordship  to  accompany  you." 

"  Scoutbush  ?  Of  course  he  will  —  he  shall — he  must! 
3ood  heavens  !  whose  concern  is  it  more  than  his  ?  You 
23* 


270  THE    CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

think,  then,  that  there  is  a  chance  of  staving  it  oflp  —  by 
cleansing-,  I  mean  't  " 

"  If  we  have  heavy  rains  during  the  next  week  or  two, 
yes.  If  this  drought  last,  better  leave  ill  alone  ;  we  shall 
only  provoke  the  devil  by  stirring  him  up." 

"  You  speak  confidently,"  said  the  majjor,  gradually  regain- 
ing his  own  self-possession,  as  he  saw  Tom  so  selt-possessed. 
"Have  you  —  allow  me  to  ask  so  important  a  question  — 
have  you  seen  much  of  cholera  ?  " 

"I  have  worked  through  three.  At  Paris,  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  in  the  West  Indies  ;  and  I  have  been  thinking  up 
my  old  experience  for  the  last  six  weeks,  foreseeing  what 
would  come." 

"  I  am  satisfied,  sir;  perhaps  I  ought  to  ask  your  pardon 
for  the  question." 

"  Not  at  all.  How  can  you  trust  a  man  unless  you  know 
him?" 

"  And  you  expect  it  within  the  month  ?  You  shall  go 
with  me  to  Lord  Scoutbush  to-morrow;  and  —  and  now  we 
will  talk  of  something  more  pleasant."  And  he  began  again 
upon  the  zoophytes. 

Tom,  as  they  chatted  on,  could  not  help  wondering  at  the 
major's  unexpected  passion  ;  and  could  not  help  remarking, 
also,  that  in  spite  of  his  desire  to  be  agreeable,  and  to  inter- 
est his  guest  in  his  scientific  discoveries,  he  was  yet  dis- 
traught, and  full  of  other  thoughts.  What  could  be  the 
meaning  of  it  ?  Was  it  mere  excess  of  human  sympathy  ? 
The  countenance  hardly  betokened  that ;  but  still,  who  can 
trust  altogether  the  expression  of  a  weather-hardened  vis- 
age of  forty-five  ?  So  the  doctor  set  it  down  to  tenderness 
of  heart,  till  a  fresh  vista  opened  on  him. 

Major  Campbell,  he  soon  found,  was  as  fond  of  insects  as 
of  sea-monsters;  and  he  began  inquiring  about  the  woods, 
the  heaths,  the  climate,  which  seemed  to  the  doctor,  for  a 
long  time,  to  mean  nothing  more  than  the  question  which  he 
put  plainly,  "Where  have  I  a  chance  of  rare  insects?" 
But  he  seemed,  after  a  while,  to  be  trying  to  learn  the  geog- 
raphy of  tne  parish  in  detail,  and  especially  of  tin;  ground 
round  Vavasour's  house.  "  However,  it  is  no  business  of 
mine,"  thought  Thurnall,  and  told  him  all  he  wanted,  till — 

"  Then  the  house  lies  quite  in  the  bottom  of  the  glen  ?  Is 
there  a  good  fall  to  the  stream  —  for  a  stream  I  suppose 
there  is  ? " 

Thurnall  shook  his  head.  "  Cold,  boggy  stewponds  in  the 
garden,  such  as  our  ancestors  loved,  damming  up  the  stream 


THE   CRUISE   OP   THE   WATERWITCH.  271 

Thi.'v  must  needs  have  fish  in  Lent,  we  know  ;  and  paid  the 
penalty  of  it  by  ague  and  fever." 

"  Stewponds  damming  up  the  stream  ?  Scoutbush  ought 
to  drain  them  instantly  !  "  said  the  major,  half  to  himself. 
"  But,  still,  the  house  lies  high  —  with  regard  to  the  town, 
I  mean.     No  chance  of  malaria  coming  up  ?  " 

'•  Upon  my  word,  sir,  as  a  professional  man,  that  is  a 
thing  that  1  dare  not  say.  The  chances  are  not  great  —  the 
house  is  two  hundred  yards  from  the  nearest  cottage ;  but, 
if  there  be  an  east  wind — " 

"  I  cannot  bear  this  any  longer.    It  is  perfect  madness  1 '' 

"  I  trust,  sir,  that  you  do  not  think  that  I  have  neglected 
the  matter.  I  have  pointed  it  all  out,  I  assure  you,  to  Mr. 
Vavasour." 

"  And  it  is  not  altered  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  is  to  be  altered  ;  that  is  — the  truth  is,  sir, 
that  Mr.  Vavasour  shrinks  so  much  from  the  very  notion  of 
cholera,  that — " 

"  That  he  does  not  like  to  do  anything  which  may  look 
like  believing  in  its  possibilitj'  ?  " 

"lie  says,"  quoth  Tom,  parrying  the  question,  but  in  a 
somewhat  dry  tone,  "that  he  is  afraid  of  alarming  Mrs. 
Vavasour  and  the  servants." 

The  major  said  something  under  his  breath,  which  Tom 
did  not  catch,  and  then,  in  an  appeased  tone  of  voice, 

"  Well,  that  is  at  least  a  fault  on  the  right  side.  Mrs. 
Vavasour's  brother,  as  owner  of  the  place,  is,  of  course,  the 
proper  person  to  make  the  house  fit  for  habitation."  And 
he  relapsed  into  silence  ;  while  Thurnall,  who  suspected 
more  than  met  the  ear,  rose  to  depart. 

"  Are  you  going  ?     It  is  not  late  ;  not  ten  o'clock  yet." 

"  A  medical  man,  who  may  be  called  up  at  any  moment, 
must  make  sure  of  his  'beauty-sleep.'  " 

"  I  will  walk  with  you,  and  smoke  my  last  cigar." 

So  they  went  out,  and  up  to  Ileale's.  Tom  went  in  ;  but 
he  observed  that  his  companion,  after  standing  a  while  in 
the  street  irresolutely,  went  on  up  the  hill,  and,  as  far  as  he 
could  see,  turned  up  the  lane  to  Vavasour's. 

"  A  mystery  here,"  thought  he,  as  he  put  matters  to 
rights  in  the  surgery  ere  going  up  stairs.  "  A  mystery, 
which  I  may  as  well  fathom.  It  may  be  of  use  to  poor 
Tom,  as  most  other  mysteries  are.  That  is,  though,  if  I 
can  do  it  honorably  ;  for  the  man  is  a  gallant  gentleman, 
I  like  him,  and  I  am  inclined  to  trust  him.  Whatsoever  his 
secret  is,   I  don't  think  that  it  is  one  which  he  need  bo 


272  THE   CRUISE    OP   THE   WATERWITCH. 

ashamed  of.  Still,  '  there  's  a  deal  of  human  natur'  in 
man/  and  there  may  be  in  him  ;  and  what  matter  if  there 
is  ? " 

Half  an  Imur  afterwards  the  major  returned,  took  the 
candle  from  Orace,  who  was  sitting  up  for  him,  and  went 
up  stairs  with  a  gentle  "  Good-night,"  but  without  looking 
at  her. 

He  sat  down  at  the  open  window,  and  looked  out,  leaning 
on  the  sill. 

"  Well,  I  was  too  late  ;  I  dare  say  there  was  some  pur- 
pose in  it.  When  shall  I  learn  to  believe  that  God  takes 
better  cai-e  of  his  own  than  I  can  do  ?  I  was  faithless  and 
impatient  to-night.  I  am  afraid  I  betrayed  myself  before 
that  man.  He  looks  like  one,  certainly,  who  could  be 
trusted  with  a  secret ;  yet  I  had  rather  that  he  had  not 
mine.  It  is  my  own  fault,  like  everything  else  1  Foolish 
old  fellow  that  you  are,  fretting  and  fussing  to  the  end  !  Is 
not  that  scene  a  message  from  above,  saying,  '  lie  still,  and 
know  that  I  am  God '  ?  " 

And  the  major  looked  out  upon  the  summer  sea,  lit  by  a 
million  globes  of  living  fire,  and  then  upon  the  waves  which 
broke  in  flame  upon  the  beach,  and  then  up  to  the  spangled 
stars  above. 

"  What  do  I  know  of  these,  with  all  my  knowing  ?  Not 
even  a  twentieth  part  of  those  medusae,  or  one  in  each  thou- 
sand of  those  sparks  among  the  foam.  Perhaps  I  need  not 
know  And  yet,  why  was  the  thirst  awakened  in  me,  save 
to  be  satisfied  at  last  ?  Perhaps  to  become  more  delicious, 
intense,  with  every  fresh  delicious  draught  of  knowledge. 
....  Death,  beautiful,  wise,  kind  Death,  when  will  you 
come  and  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know  ?  I  courted  you 
once  and  many  a  time,  brave  old  Death,  only  to  give  rest  to 
the  weary.  That  was  a  coward's  wish,  and  so  you  would 
not  come.  I  ran  you  close  in  Afifghanistan,  old  Death,  and 
at  Sobraon,  too,  I  was  not  far  behind  you  ;  antl  1  thought  I 
nad  you  safe  among  that  jungle  grass  at  Alliwall ;  but  you 
slipped  through  my  hand,  — I  was  not  worthy  of  you.  And 
now  I  will  not  hunt  you  any  more,  old  Death  ;  do  you  bide 
your  time,  and  I  mine  ;  though  who  knows  if  I  m;iy  not 
meet  you  here  ?  Only,  when  you  come,  give  me  not  rest, 
but  work.  Give  work  to  the  idle,  freedom  to  the  chained, 
sight  to  the  blind  I  Tell  me  a  little  about  finer  things  than 
zoophytes  —  perhaps  about  the  zoophytes  as  well  —  and 
you  shall  still  be  brave  old  Death,  my  good  camp-comrade 
now  for  many  a  year  " 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH.        273 

"Was  Major  Campbell  mad  ?  That  depends  upon  the  way 
ill  v/hich  the  reader  ma}''  choose  to  define  the  adjective. 

Meanwhile  Scoutbnsh  had  walked  into  Perialva  Court  — 
where  an  affecting-  scene  of  reconciliation  took  place  ? 

Not  in  the  least.  Scoutbush  kissed  Lucia,  shook  hands 
with  Elsley,  hug-ged  the  children,  and  then  settled  himself 
in  an  arm-chair,  and  talked  about  the  weather,  exactly  as  if 
he  had  been  running  in  and  out  of  the  house  every  week 
for  the  last  three  years,  and  so  the  matter  was  done  ;  and, 
for  the  first  time,  a  partie  carree  was  assembled  in  the 
dining-room. 

The  evening  passed  off  at  first  as  uncomfortably  as  it 
could,  where  three  out  of  the  four  were  well-bred  people. 
Elsley  was,  of  course,  shy  before  Lord  Scoutbush,  and 
Scoutbush  was  equally  shy  before  Elsley,  though  as  civil 
as  possible  to  him,  for  the  little  fellow  stood  in  extreme 
awe  of  Elsley's  talents,  and  was  afraid  of  opening  his  hps 
before  a  poet.  Lucia  was  nervous  for  both  their  sakes,  as 
well  she  might  be  ;  and  Valencia  had  to  make  all  the  talk- 
ing, and  succeeded  capitally  in  drawing  out  both  her  brother 
and  her  brother-in-law,  till  both  of  them  found  the  other,  on 
the  whole,  more  like  other  people  than  he  had  expected. 
The  next  morning's  breakfast,  therefore,  was  easy  and 
gracious  enough ;  and,  when  it  was  over,  and  Lucia  fled  to 
household  matters  — 

"You  smoke.  Vavasour?"  asked  Scoutbush. 

Vavasour  did  not  smoke. 

"Really?  I  thought  poets  always  smoked.  You  will 
not  forbid  my  having  a  cigar  in  your  garden,  nevertheless, 
I  suppose  ?  Do  walk  round  with  me,  too,  and  show  me  the 
place,  unless  you  are  going  to  be  busy." 

0,  no  ;  Elsley  was  at  Lord  Scoutbush's  service,  of  course, 
and  had  really  nothing  to  do.     So  out  they  went. 

"  Charming  old  pigeon-hole  it  is  !  "  said  its  owner.  "  I 
have  not  seen  it  since  I  went  into  the  Guards  ;  Campbell 
Bays  it 's  a  shame  of  me,  and  so  it  is  one,  I  suppose  ;  but 
how  beautiful  you  have  made  the  garden  look  !  " 

"  Lucia  is  very  fond  of  gardening,"  said  Elsley,  who  was 
very  fond  of  it  also,  and  had  great  taste  therein  ;  but  he 
was  afraid  to  confess  any  such  tastes  before  a  man  who,  he 
thought,  would  not  understand  him. 

"  And  that  fine  old  wood —  full  of  cocks  it  used  to  be  —  ] 
bope  you  worked  it  well  last  year," 


274  THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

Elsloy  did  not  shoot ;  but  he  had  heard  that  there  waa 
plenty  of  game  tliere. 

"Plenty  of  cocks,"  said  his  gu(!st,  correcting'  him; 
"  but  for  game,  tlie  loss  we  say  about  that  the  better.  1 
really  wonder  you  do  not  shoot ;  it  fills  up  time  so  in  the 
M'i  liter." 

"  There  is  really  no  winter  to  fill  up  here,  thanks  to  this 
delicious  climate  :  and  I  have  my  books." 

"  Ah  !  I  wish  I  had.  I  wish,  heartily,"  said  he,  in  a  con- 
fidential tone,  "you,  or  Campbell,  or  some  of  your  clever 
men,  would  sell  me  a  little  of  their  book-learning;  as  Va- 
lencia says  to  me,  '  Brains  are  so  common  in  the  world,  1 
wonder  how  none  fell  to  your  share.'  " 

"  I  do  not  think  tluit  they  are  an  article  which  is  for  sale, 
if  Solomon  is  to  be  believed." 

"And  if  they  were,  I  couldn't  afford  to  buy,  with  this 
Irish  Encumbered  Estates'  Bill.  But  now,  this  is  one  thing 
I  wanted  to  say.  Is  everything  here  just  as  you  would 
wish  ?  Of  course,  no  one  could  wish  a  better  tenant ;  but 
any  repairs,  you  know,  or  improvements,  which  I  ought  to 
do  of  course  ?  Only  tell  me  what  you  think  should  be 
done  ;  for,  of  course,  you  know  more  about  these  things 
than  I  do  —  can't  know  less." 

"  Nothing,  I  assure  you,  Lord  Scoutbush.  I  have  always 
left  those  matters,  to  Mr.  Tardrew." 

"Ah!  but,  my  dear  fellow,  you  shouldn't  do  that.  He 
is  such  a  screw,  as  all  honest  stewards  are.  Screws  me,  I 
know,  and,  I  dare  say,  has  screwed  j'ou,  too." 

"  Never,  I  assure  you.  I  never  gave  him  the  opportu- 
nity, and  he  has  been  most  civil." 

"  Well,  in  future,  just  order  hiin  to  do  what  you  like,  and 
just  as  if  you  were  landlord,  in  fact ;  and  if  the  old  man 
haggles,  write  to  me,  and  I  '11  blow  him  up.  Delighted  to 
have  a  man  of  taste  like  you  here,  who  can  improve  the 
place  for  me." 

"  I  assure  you.  Lord  Scoutbush,  I  need  nothing,  nor  does 
the  place.     I  am  a  man  of  very  i'vw  wants." 

"I  wish  I  were,"  sighed  Scoutbush,  pulling  out  another 
of  Hudson's  highest-priced  cigars. 

"  And  I  am  bound  to  say"  —  (and  here  Elsley  choked  a 
littlo,  but  the  viscount's  frankness  and  humility  had  softened 
liiin,  arid  he  determined  to  be  very  magnanimous)  —  "  1  am 
bound  in  honor,  after  owing  to  your  kindness  such  an  ex- 
quisite retreat, —  all  that  either  I  or  Lucia  could  have  fanc'ed 


THE  CRUISE  Ov   THE  WATERWITCH.        2T5 

for  ourselves,  and  more,  —  not  to  trouble  you  by  asking  foi 
little  matters  which  we  really  do  not  need." 

And  so  Elsley,  instead  of  simply  asking  to  have  the 
house-drains  set  right,  which  Lord  Scoutbush  would  have 
had  done  upon  the  spot,  chose  to  be  lofty-minded,  at  the 
risk  of  killing  his  wife  and  childi-en. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  really  must  not  'lord'  me  any 
more  ;  I  hate  it.  I  must  be  plain  Scoutbush  here  among 
m\  own  people,  just  as  I  am  in  the  Guards'  mess-room. 
And  as  for  owing  me  any,  —  really,  it  is  we  that  are  in 
your  debt  —  to  see  my  sister  so  happy,  and  such  beautifnl 
children,  and  so  well,  too  —  and,  altogether  —  and  Valencia 
so  delighted  with  your  poems  —  and,  and,  altogether — " 
and  there  Lord  Scoutbush  stopped,  having  hoisted,  as  he 
considered,  the  flag  of  peace  once  and  for  all,  and  very  glad 
that  the  thing  was  over. 

Elsley  was  going  to  say  something  in  return  ;  but  his 
guest  turned  the  conversation  as  fast  as  he  could.  "  And, 
now,  I  know  you  want  to  be  busy,  though  you  are  too  civil 
to  confess  it ;  and  I  must  be  with  that  old  fool  Tardrew  at 
ten,  to  settle  acccounts  ;  he'll  scold  me  if  I  do  not  —  the 
precise  old  pedant !  — just  as  if  I  was  his  own  child.  Good- 
by." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Frederick?"  called  Lucia,  from 
the  window.  She  had  been  watching  the  interview  anx- 
iously enough,  and  could  see  that  it  had  ended  well. 

"  To  old  Stot-and-kye,  at  the  farm  ;  do  you  want  any- 
thing?" 

"  No  ;  only  I  thought  you  might  be  going  to  the  yacht ; 
and  Valencia  would  have  walked  down  with  you.  She 
wants  to  find  Major  Campbell." 

"  I  want  to  scold  Major  Campbell,"  said  Valencia,  trip- 
ping out  on  the  lawn  in  her  walking-dress.  "  Why  has  he 
not  been  here  an  hour  ago  ?  I  will  undertake  to  say  that 
he  was  up  at  four  this  morning." 

"  He  waits  to  be  invited,  I  suppose,"  said  Scoutbush. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  do  it,"  said  Elsley  to  himself,  sighing. 

"Just  like  his  primness,"  said  Valencia.  "I  shall  go 
down  and  bring  him  up  myself  this  minute,  and  Mr.  Vava- 
eour  shall  come  with  me.  Of  course  you  will !  You  do 
not  know  what  a  delightful  person  he  is,  when  once  you 
can  break  the  ice." 

Elsley,  like  most  vain  men,  was  of  a  jealous  temper ;  ai:d 
Valencia's  eagerness  to  see  Major  Campbell  jarred  on  him. 
He  wanted  to  keep  the  exquisite  creature  to  himself,  and 


276  THE   CRUISE   OP   THE    WATERWITCH. 

TTeadley  was  quite  enough  of  an  intruder  already.  Bosivlc 
the  accounts  of  a  new  comer,  liis  learning',  his  military 
prowess,  the  reverence  with  which  all,  even  Scoutbush, 
evidently  regarded  him,  made  him  prepared  to  dislike  the 
major  ;  and  all  the  more,  now  that  he  heard  that  tlusre  was 
an  ice-crust  to  crack.  Impulsive  meu  like  Elsley,  especially 
when  their  selt-respect  and  certainty  of  their  own  i^osition 
s  not  very  strong,  have  instinctively  a  defiant  tear  of  the 
trong,  calm,  self-contained  man,  especially  if  he  has  seen 
the  world  ;  and  Elsley  set  down  Major  Campbell  as  a  proud, 
sarcastic  fellow,  before  whom  he  must  be  at  the  pains  of 
being  continually  on  his  guard.  He  wished  him  a  hundred 
miles  away.  However,  there  was  no  refusing  Valencia 
anything  ;  so  he  got  his  hat,  but  with  so  bad  a  grace  that 
Valencia  saw  his  chagrin,  and  from  mei'e  naughtiness  of 
heart  amused  herself  with  it,  by  talking  all  the  way  of  noth- 
ing but  Major  Campbell. 

"  And  Lucia,"  slie  said  at  last,  "  will  be  so  glad  to  see 
him  again  !  We  knew  him  so  well,  you  know,  in  Eaton 
Square  years  ago." 

"  Really,"  said  Elsley,  wincing,  "  I  never  met  him  there." 
He  recollected  that  Lucia  had  expressed  more  pleasure  at 
Major  Campbell's  coming  than  even  at  that  of  her  brother; 
and  a  dark,  undefined  phantom  entered  his  heart,  which, 
though  he  would  have  been  too  proud  to  confess  it  to  him- 
Belf,  was  none  other  than  jealousy. 

"0  —  did  you  not  ?  No  ;  it  was  the  year  before  we  first 
knew  you.  And  we  used  to  laugh  at  him  together,  behind 
his  back,  and  chi'istened  him  the  wild  Indian,  because  he 
was  so  gauche  and  shy.  He  was  a  major  in  the  Indian 
army  then  :  but  a  few  months  afterwards  he  sold  out,  went 
into  the  line  —  no  one  could  tell  why,  for  he  threw  away 
very  brilliant  prospects,  they  say,  and  might  have  been  a 
general  by  now,  instead  of  a  mere  major  still.  But  he  is  so 
improved  since  then  ;  he  is  like  an  elder  brother  to  Scout- 
bush  :  guides  him  in  everything.  I  call  him  the  blind  man, 
and  the  major  his  dog!  " 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  thought  Elsley,  who  disliked  the 
notion  of  Campbell's  having  power  over  a  man  to  whom  he 
wa'r  indebted  for  his  house-room  ;  but  by  this  time  they 
were  at  Mrs.  Harvey's  door. 

Mrs.  Harvey  opened  it,  curtseying  to  the  very  ground ; 
and  Valencia  ran  up  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  sitting-room 
door  herself. 

"  Come  in,"  shouted  a  preoccupied  voice  inside. 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH.  277 

'  Is  that  a  propel'  way  in  which  to  address  a  lady,  sir  ?  '■ 
anfcwered  she,  putting-  in  lier  beautiful  head. 

Major  Campbell  was  sitting-,  Elsley  could  see,  in  his  shirt- 
e.eeves,  cigar  in  mouth,  bent  over  his  microscope ;  but, 
instead  of  the  expected  prim  voice,  he  heard  a  very  gay 
and  arch  one  answer,  "  Is  that  a  proper  way  in  which  to 
come  peeping-  into  an  old  bachelor's  sanctuary,  ma'am  ?  Go 
away  this  moment,  till  I  make  mj'self  fit  to  be  seen." 

Valencia  shut  the  door  again,  laughing. 

"You  seem  very  intimate  with  Major  Campbell,"  said 
Elsley. 

"Intimate?  I  look  on  him  as  my  father  almost.  Now 
may  we  come  in  ?  "  said  she,  knocking  again  in  pretty 
petulance.     "  I  want  to  introduce  Mr.  Vavasour." 

"  1  shall  be  only  too  happy,"  said  the  major,  opening  his 
door  (this  time  with  his  coat  on) ;  "there  are  few  persons 
in  the  world  whom  I  have  more  wished  to  know  than  Mr. 
Vavasour."  And  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  quite  led  Elsley 
in.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  grave  interest,  looking  intently 
at  Elsley  as  he  spoke.  Valencia  remarked  the  interest  — 
Elsley  only  the  compliment. 

"  It  is  a  great  kindness  of  you  to  call  on  me  so  soon," 
said  he.  "  I  met  Mrs.  Vavasour  several  times  in  years  past ; 
and  though  I  saw  very  little  of  her,  I  saw  enough  to  long 
much  for  the  acquaintance  of  the  man  who  has  been  worthy 
to  become  her  husband." 

Elisley  blushed,  for  his  conscience  smote  him  a  little  at 
that  word  "  worth}^"  and  muttered  some  common-place 
civility  in  return.  Valencia  saw  it,  and,  attributing  it  to  his 
usual  awkwardness,  drew  off  the  conversation  to  herself. 

"  Really,  Major  Campbell !  You  bring  in  Mr.  Vavasour, 
and  let  me  walk  behind  as  I  can  ;  and  then  let  me  sit  three 
whole  minutes  in  your  house  without  deigning  to  speak  to 
me  !  " 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Queen  Whims  !  "  answered  he,  returning 
suddenly  to  his  gay  tone  ;  "  and  how  have  you  been  mis- 
behaving yourself  since  we  met  last  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  misbehaving  myself  at  all,  mon  cher 
Saint  Pere,  as  Mr.  Vavasour  will  answer  for  me,  during  the 
moet  delightful  fortnight  I  ever  spent !  " 

"  Delightful  indeed  !  "  said  Elsley,  as  he  was  bound  to 
say  ;  but  he  said  it  with  an  earnestness  which  made  the 
major  fix  his  eyes  on  him.  "  Why  should  he  not  find  any 
and  every  fortnight  as  delightful  as  his  last  ? "  said  he  tc 
himself;  but  now  Valencia  began  bantering  him  about  big 
24 


278  THE   CRUISE    OF   THE    WATERWITCH. 

books  and  his  animals  ;  wanting  to  look  through  his  micro 
scope,  pulliiio-  oft"  her  hat  for  the  purpose,  laugliing  when 
her  curls  bliiidod  lier,  lotting  them  blinti  her  in  order  to  toss 
them  hack  in  the  prettiest  way,  jesting  at  him  about  "  his 
old  logics  "  at  the  Linnaean  Society  ;  clapping  her  hands  in 
ecstasy  when  he  answered  that  they  were  not  old  fogies  at 
all,  but  the  most  charming  set  of  men  in  Phigland,  and  that 
(with  no  oflence  to  the  name  of  Scoutbush)  he  was  prouder 
of  being  an  F.L.S.,  than  if  he  were  a  peer  of  the  realm, — 
and  so  forth  ;  all  which  harmless  pleasantry  made  Elsley 
cross,  and  more  cross  —  first,  because  he  did  not  n)ix  in  it  ; 
next,  because  he  could  not  mix  in  it  if  he  tried.  He  liked 
to  be  always  in  the  second  heaven;  and  if  other  people 
were  anywhere  else,  he  thought  them  bores. 

At  last,  "  Now,  if  you  will  be  good  for  five  minutes," 
said  the  major,  "  I  will  show  you  something  really  beau- 
tiful." 

"  I  can  see  that,"  answered  she,  with  the  most  charming 
impudence,  "in  another  glass  besides  your  magnifying 
one." 

"  Be  it  so  ;  but  look  here,  and  see  what  an  exquisite 
world  there  is,  of  which  you  never  dream  ;  and  which  be- 
haves a  great  deal  better  in  its  station  than  the  world  of 
which  you  dream  !  " 

When  Campbell  spoke  in  that  way,  Valencia  was  good  at 
once  ;  and,  as  she  went  obediently  to  the  microscope,  she 
whispered,  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  man  Sniuf  Pere." 

"  Don't  be  naughty,  then,  ma  chere  enfant,"  whispered  he  ; 
for  he  saw  something  about  Elsley's  face  which  gave  him  a 
painful  suspicion. 

She  looked  long,  and  then  lifted  up  her  head  suddenly — • 
"  Do  come  and  look,  Mr.  Vavasour,  at  this  exquisite  little 
glass  fairy,  like  —  I  cannot  tell  what  like,  but  a  pure  spirit 
hovering  in  some  nun's  dream  !     Come  !  " 

Elsley  came,  and  looked  ;  and  when  he  looked  he  started, 
for  it  was  the  very  same  zoophyte  which  Thurnall  had 
showed  him  on  a  certain  memorable  day. 

"  Where  did  you  find  the  fairy,  vwn  Saint  Pere?  " 

"  1  had  no  such  good  fortune.  Mr.  Thurnall,  the  doctor, 
gave  it  me." 

"  Thurnall?  "  said  she,  while  Elsley  kept  still  looking,  to 
nide  clieeks  which  were  growing  very  red.  "  lit;  is  such  a 
clever  man,  they  say.  Wher(!  did  you  meet  him  'i  1  have 
often  thought  of  asking  Mr.  Vavasour  to  invite  him  up  for 
an  evening  with  his   microscope,     lie  seems   so    supei-ior 


THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  279 

to  the  people  round  him.  It  would  be  a  charity,  really,  Mr. 
Vavasour." 

Vavasour  kept  liis  eyes  fixed  on  the  zoophyte,  and  said, — 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  delighted,  if  you  wish  it." 

"You  will  wish  it  yourself  a  second  time,"  chimed  in 
Campbell,  "if  you  try  it  once.  Perhaps  yoii  know  nothing 
of  him  but  professionally.  Unfortunately  for  professiona. 
men,  that  too  often  happens." 

"Know  anything  of  him — I?  I  assure  you  not,  save 
that  he  attends  Mrs.  Vavasour  and  the  children,"  said  Vava- 
sour, looking  up  at  last ;  but  with  an  expression  of  anger 
which  astonished  both  Valencia  and  Campbell. 

Campbell  thought  that  he  was  too  proud  to  allow  rank  as 
a  gentleman  to  a  country  doctor ;  and  despised  him  from 
that  moment,  though  as  it  happened  unjustly.  But  he 
answered  quietly, — 

"  I  assure  you,  whatever  some  country  practitioners  may 
be,  the  average  of  them,  as  far  as  I  have  seen,  are  cleverer 
men,  and  even  of  higher  tone,  than  their  neighbors  ;  and 
Thurnall  is  beyond  the  average  ;  he  is  a  man  of  the  world,  — 
even  too  much  of  one,  —  and  a  man  of  science  ;  and  I  fairly 
confess  that,  what  with  his  wit,  his  savoir  vivre,  and  his 
genial  good  temper,  I  have  quite  fallen  in  love  with  him  ip 
a  single  evening ;  we  began  last  night  on  the  microscope, 
and  ended  on  all  heaven  and  earth." 

"  How  I  should  like  to  make  a  third  !  " 

"  My  dear  Queen  Whims  would  hear  a  great  deal  of  sober 
sense,  then  ;  at  least  on  one  side  ;  but  I  shall  not  ask  her  ; 
for  Mr,  Thurnall  and  I  have  our  deep  secrets  together." 

So  spoke  the  major,  in  the  simple  wish  to  exalt  Tom  in  a 
quarter  where  he  hoped  to  get  him  practice  ;  and  his  "se- 
cret" was  a  mere  jest,  unnecessary,  perhaps,  as  he  thought 
afterwards,  to  pass  off  Tom's  want  of  orthodoxy. 

"  I  was  a  babbler,  then,"  said  he  to  himself  the  next  mo- 
ment ;   "  how  much  better  to  have  simply  held  my  tongue  ! '' 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  I  know  men  have  their  secrets,  as  well  aa 
women,"  said  Valencia,  for  the  mere  love  of  saying  some- 
thing ;  tut,  as  she  looked  at  Vavasour,  she  saw  an  expres- 
eion  in  his  fixce  which  she  had  never  seen  before.  What 
was  it?  —  All  that  one  can  picture  for  one's  self  branded  into 
the  countenance  of  a  man  unable  to  repress  the  least  emo- 
tion, who  had  worked  himself  into  the  belief  that  Thurnall 
bad  betrayed  his  secret. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Vavasour,"  cried  Campbell,  of  course 
unable  to  guesa  the  truth,  ar>d  supposing  vagufly  that  he 


280        THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 

was  "  ill :  "  "  I  am  sure  that  —  that  the  sun  has  overpowered 
you"  (the  only  possible  thing-  he  could  think  of).  "Lie 
down  on  the  sola  a  minute  "  (Vavasour  was  actually  reeling 
with  rage  and  terror),  "and  I  will  run  up  to  Thurnall's  for 
sal  volatile." 

Elsley,  who  thoug'ht  him  the  most  consummate  of  hypo- 
crites, cast  on  him  a  louk  which  he  intended  to  have  been 
withering,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  two  star- 
ing at  each  otlier. 

Valencia  was  half  inclined  to  laugh,  knowing  Elsley's  pet- 
ulance and  vanity  ;  but  the  impossibility  of  guessing  a  cause 
kept  her  quiet. 

Major  Cam[)bell  stood  for  full  five  minutes  ;  not  as  one 
astounded,  but  as  one  in  deep  and  anxious  thought. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter,  man  Saint  Pere?"  asked  sh«» 
at  last,  to  break  the  silence. 

"  That  there  are  more  whims  in  the  world  than  yours,  dear 
Queen  Whims  ;  and  I  fear  darker  ones.  Let  us  walk  up 
together  after  this  man.     I  have  offended  him." 

"  Nonsense  !  I  dare  say  he  wanted  to  get  home  to  write 
poetry,  as  you  did  not  praise  what  he  had  written.  I  know 
his  vanity  and  flightiness." 

"  You  do  ?  "  asked  he  quickly,  in  a  painful  tone.  "  How- 
ever, I  have  offended  him,  I  can  see  ;  and  deeply.  I  must 
go  up  and  make  things  right,  for  the  sake  of — for  every- 
body's sake." 

"  Then  do  not  ask  me  anything.  Lucia  loves  him  intensely, 
and  let  that  be  enough  for  us." 

The  major  saw  the  truth  of  the  last  sentence  no  more  than 
Valencia  herself  did  ;  for  Valencia  would  have  been  glad 
enough  to  pour  out  to  him,  with  every  exaggeration,  her  sis- 
ter's woes  and  wrongs,  real  and  fancied,  had  not  the  sense 
of  her  own  folly  with  Vavasour  kept  her  silent  and  conscience- 
stricken. 

Valencia  remarked  the  major's  pained  look  as  they  walked 
up  the  street. 

"  You  dear,  conscientious  Saint  Pere,  why  will  you  fret 
yourself  about  this  fuolish  matter  ?  He  will  have  forgotten 
it  all  in  an  hour  ;  I  know  him  well  enough." 

Major  Campbell  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  admire  Els- 
ley the  more  for  throwing  away  capriciously  such  deep  pas- 
Bion  as  he  had  seen  him  show,  any  more  than  for  showing  tho 
eame. 

"  He  must  be  of  a  very  volatile  temperament." 

"0,  all  geniuses  are." 


THE   CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  281 

"  I  have  no  respect  for  genius,  Miss  St.  Just ;  I  do  not 
even  acknowledge  its  existence  where  there  is  no  strengt? 
and  steadiness  of  character.  If  an 3'  one  pretends  to  b( 
more  than  a  man,  he  must  begin  by  proving  himself  a  man  at 
all.  Genius  ?  Give  me  common  sense  and  common  decency! 
Does  he  give  Mrs.  Vavasour,  i^ray,  the  benefits  of  any  of 
these  pretty  flights  of  genius  ?  " 

Valencia  was  frightened.  She  had  never  heard  her  Saint 
Pere  speak  so  severely  and  sarcastically  ;  and  she  feared 
that,  if  he  knew  the  truth,  he  would  be  terribly  angry. 
She  had  never  seen  him  angry ;  but  she  knew  well  enough 
that  that  passion,  when  it  rose  in  him  in  a  righteous  cause, 
would  be  very  awful  to  see  ;  and  she  was  one  of  those 
women  who  always  grow  angry  when  they  are  frightened. 
So  she  was  angry  at  his  calling  her  Miss  St.  Just ;  she  was 
angry  because  she  chose  to  think  he  was  talking  at  her  ; 
though  she  reasonably  might  have  guessed  it,  seeing  that 
he  had  scolded  her  a  hundred  times  for  want  of  steadiness 
of  character.  She  was  more  angry  than  all  because  she 
knew  that  her  own  vanity  had  caused  —  at  least  disagree- 
ment—  between  Lucia  and  Elsley.  All  which  —  combined 
with  her  natural  wish  not  to  confess  an  unpleasant  truth 
about  her  sister — justified  her,  of  course,  in  answering: 

"  Miss  St.  Just  does  not  intrude  into  the  secrets  of 
her  sister's  married  life  ;  and,  if  she  did,  she  would  not 
repeat  them." 

Major  Campbell  sighed,  and  walked  on  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  then,  — 

"  Pardon,  Miss  St.  Just ;  I  asked  a  rude  question,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  it." 

"  Pardon  you,  my  dear  Saint  Pere  ?  "  cried  sue,  almost 
catching  at  his  hand.  "  Never  I  I  must  either  believe  vou 
infallible,  or  hate  you  eternally.  It  is  I  that  was  naughty  ; 
I  always  am.     But  you  will  forgive  Queen  Whims  ?  " 

"Who  could  help  it?"  said  the  major,  in  a  sad,  sweet 
tone.  "  But  here  is  the  postman.  May  I  open  my  let- 
ters ?  " 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like,  now  you  have  forgiven  me. 
Why,  what  is  it,  mon  Saint  Pere?  " 

A  sudden  shock  of  horror  had  passed  over  the  major's 
face  as  he  read  his  letter  ;  but  it  had  soon  subsided  into 
stately  calm. 

"  A   gallant   ofiicer,  whom  we  and  all  the  world  knew 
well,  is  dead  of  cholera,  at  his  post,  where  a  man  should 
2i* 


282  THE   CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

die And,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Just,  we  are  going  tc 

the  Crimea." 

"We?  — you?" 

"  Yes.     The  expedition  will  really  sail,  I  find." 

"  But  not  you  ?  " 

"'I  shall  offer  my  services.  My  leave  of  absence  will,  in 
any  case,  end  on  the  first  of  September;  and,  even  if  it  did 
not,  my  health  is  quite  enough  restored  to  enable  me  to  walk 
up  to  a  cannon's  mouth." 

"  Ah,  mon  Saint  Fere,  what  words  are  these  ?  " 

"  The  words  of  an  old  soldier.  Queen  Whims,  who  has 
b'Cen  so  long  at  his  trade  that  he  has  got  to  take  a  strange 
pleasure  in  it." 

"  In  killing  ?  " 

"  No  ;    only  in  the  chance    of  .     But  I  will   not 

cast  an  unnecessary  shadow  over  your  bright  soul.  There 
will  be  shadows  enough  over  it  soon,  without  my  help." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  you,  and  thousands  more  as  delicate,  if  not  as 
fair  as  you,  will  see,  ere  long,  what  the  realities  of  human 
life  are  ;  and  in  a  way  of  which  you  have  never  dreamed." 

And  he  murmured,  half  to  himself,  the  words  of  the 
prophet :  "  '  Thou  saidst,  I  shall  sit  as  a  lady  forever  ; 
but  these  two  things  shall  come  upon  thee  in  one  day, 
widowhood  and  the  loss  of  children.  They  shall  even  come 
upon  thee.'  —  No  1  not  in  their  fulness!  There  are  noble 
elements  beneath  the  crust,  which  will  come  out  all  the 
purer  from  the  fire  ;  and  we  shall  have  heroes  and  heroines 
rising  up  among  us  as  of  old,  sincere  and  earnest,  ready  to 
face  their  work,  and  to  do  it,  and  to  call  all  things  by  their 
right  names  once  more  ;  and  Queen  Whims  herself  will  be- 
come what  Queen  Whims  might  be  !  " 

Valencia  was  awed,  as  well  she  might  have  been  ;  for 
there  was  a  very  deep  sadness  about  Campbell's  voice. 

"  You  think  there  will  be  def disasters  ?  "  said  she, 

at  last. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  That  we  are  what  we  always  were, 
I  doubt  not.  Scoutbush  will  fig-ht  as  merrily  as  I.  But  we 
owe  the  penalty  of  many  sins,  and  we  shall  pay  it." 

It  would  be  as  unfair,  perhaps,  as  easy,  to  make  Major 
Campbell  a  prophet  after  the  fict,  by  attributing  to  him  any 
distinct  expectation  of  those  mistakes  which  have  been  but 
too  notorious  since.  Much  of  the  sadness  in  his  tone  may 
have  been  due  to  his  habitual  melancholy  ;  his  strong  be- 
lief that    the  world  was   deeply  diseased,   and    that   somo 


THE   CRUISE   OP   THE   WATERWITCH.  283 

terrible  purgation  would  surely  come,  when  it  was  needed. 
But  it  is  difficult,  again,  to  conceive  that  those  errors  were 
altogether  unforeseen  by  many  an  officer  of  Campbell's 
experience  and  thouglitfulness. 

"  We  will  talk  no  more  of  it,  just  now."  And  they 
walked  up  to  Penalva  Court,  serioush''  enough. 

"  Well,  Scoutbush,  any  letters  from  town  ? "  said  the 
major. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  heard  what  has  happened  at  D bar- 
racks .''  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  had  better  take  care,  then,  that  the  like  of  it  does 
not  happen  here." 

"  Here  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  '11  tell  you  all  presently.  Have  you  heard  from 
head-quarters  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  all  right,"  said  Scoutbush,  who  did  not  like  to 
let  out  the  truth  before  Valencia. 

Campbell  saw  it,  and  signed  to  him  to  speak  out. 

"All  right?"  asked  Valencia.  "Then  you  are  not 
going?" 

"  Ay,  but  I  am  !  Orders  to  join  my  regiment  by  the  first 
of  October,  and  to  be  shot  as  soon  afterwards  as  is  fitting  for 
the  honor  of  my  country.  So,  Miss  Val.,  you  must  be  quick 
in  making  good  friends  with  the  heir-at-law ;  or  else  you 
won't  get  your  bills  paid  any  more." 

"  0,  dear,  dear !  "  .  And  Valencia  began  to  cry  bitterly. 
It  was  her  first  real  sorrow. 

Strangely  enough,  Major  Campbell,  instead  of  trying  to 
comfort  her,  took  Scoutbush  out  with  him,  and  left  her  alone 
with  her  tears.  He  could  not  rest  till  he  had  opened  the 
whole  cholera  question. 

Scoutbush  was  honestly  shocked.  Who  would  have 
dreamed  it  ?  No  one  had  ever  told  him  that  the  cholera 
had  really  been  there  before.  What  could  he  do  ?  Send  fof 
Thurnall  ? 

Tom  was  sent  for  ;  and   Scoutbush  found,  to  his  horror, 
that  what  little  he  could  have  ever  done  ouo-ht  to  have  been 
done  three  months  ago,  with  Lord   Minchampstead's  im 
provements  at  Pentremochyn. 

The  little  man  walked  up  and  down,  and  wrung  his  hands. 
He  cursed  Tardrew  for  not  telling  him  the  truth  ;  he 
cursed  himself  for  letting,  the  cottages  go  out  of  his  power  ; 
he  cursed  A,  B,  and  C,  for  taking  the  said  cottages  off  hia 


284  THE   CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

hands  ;  he  cursed  up,  he  carsed  down,  he  cursed  all  around, 
tliin!:^s  which  ought  to  have  been  cursed,  and  things  which 
really  ought  not;  for  half  of  the  worst  sanatory  sinners,  in 
thit''.  blessed  age  of  ignorance,  yclept  of  progress  and  sci- 
ence, —  how  our  grandchildren  will  laugh  at  the  epithets  !  — 
are  uiierly  unconscious  and  guiltless  ones. 

But  cursing  leit  him,  as  it  leaves  other  men,  very  much 
where  he  had  started. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  was  in  one  thing  a  true  nobleman, 
for  he  was  above  all  pride  ;  as  are  most  men  of  rank,  wlio 
know  what  their  own  rank  means.  It  is  only  the  upstart 
unaccustomed  to  his  new  eminence,  who  stands  on  his  dig- 
nitj',  and  "  asserts  his  power." 

So  Scoutbush  begged  humbly  of  Thuniall  only  to  tell  him 
what  he  could  do. 

"  You  might  use  your  moral  influence,  my  lord." 

"Moral  influence?"  in  a  tone  which  implied,  naively 
enough,  "  I  'd  better  get  a  little  morals  myself  before  I  talk 
of  using  the  same." 

"  Your  position  in  the  parish " 

"  My  good  sir  !  "  quoth  Scoutbush,  in  his  shrewd  way  ; 
"  do  you  not  know  yourself  wdiat  these  fine  fellows  who 
were  ready  yesterday  to  kiss  the  dust  off  my  feet  would 
Bay,  if  I  asked  leave  to  touch  a  single  hair  of  their  rights  ? 
'  Tell  you  what,  my  lord  ;  we  paj's  you  your  rent,  and  you 
takes  it.  You  mind  your  business,  and  we  '11  mind  our'n.' 
You  forget  that  times  are  changed  since  my  seventeenth 
progenitor  was  lord  of  life  and  limb  over  man  and  maid  in 
Aberalva." 

"  And  since  your  seventeenth  progenitor  took  the  trouble 
to  live  at  Penalva  Court,"  said  Campbell,  "  instead  of 
throwing  away  what  little  moral  influence  he  had  by  going 
into  the  Guards,  and  spending  his  time  between  Rotten  Row 
and  Cowes." 

"  Hardly  fair,  Major  Campbell  !  "  quoth  Tom  ;  "you  fw- 
get  that  in  the  old  times,  if  the  Lord  of  Aberalva  was 
responsible  for  his  people,  he  had  also  by  law  the  power  of 
making  them  obey  him." 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  then,"  said  Scoutbush, 
a  little  tartly,  "  that  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  You  can  put  to  rights  the  cottages  which  are  still  in 
your  hands,  my  lord.  For  the  rest,  my  only  remaining  hope 
lies  in  the  last  person  whom  one  would  usually  depute  on 
such  an  errand." 

"  Who  is  that  ?  " 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH.        285 

"  The  schoolmistress." 

"  The  who  ?  "  asked  Scoutbush. 

"  The  schoolmistress  ;  at  whose  house  Majot  Campbell 
lodges." 

And  Tom  told  them,  succinctly,  enough  to  justify  his 
strange  assertion. 

"  If  you  doubt  me,  my  lord,  I  advise  you  to  ask  Mr.  Head- 
ley.  He  is  no  friend  of  hers,  being  a  high  churchman,  while 
she  is  a  little  inclined  to  be  schismatic  ;  but  an  enemy's 
opinion  will  be  all  the  more  honest." 

"  She  must  be  a  wonderful  woman,"  said  Scoutbush  ;  "  I 
should  like  to  see  her." 

"  And  I  too,"  said  Campbell.  "  I  passed  a  lovely  girl  on 
the  stairs  last  night,  and  thought  no  more  of  it.  Lovely 
girls  are  common  enough  in  West     ountry  ports." 

"  We  '11  go  and  see  her,"  quoth  his  lordship. 

Meanwhile,  Aberalva  pier  was  astonished  by  a  strange 
phenomenon.  A  boat  from  the  yacht  landed  at  the  pier- 
head, not  only  Claude  Mellot,  whose  beard  was  an  object 
of  wonder  to  the  fishermen,  but  a  tall  three-legged  box  and 
a  little  black  tent ;  which,  being  set  upon  the  pier,  became 
the  scene  of  various  mysterious  operations,  carried  on  by 
Claude  and  a  sailor  lad. 

"  I  say  !  "  quoth  one  of  the  fishing  elders,  after  long,  sus- 
picious silence;  "I  say,  lads,  this  won't  do.  We  can't 
have  no  outlandish  foreigners  taking  observations  here  !  " 

And  then  dropped  out  one  wild  suspicion  after  another. 

"  Maybe  he  's  surveying  for  a  railroad  ?  " 

"Maybe  he's  from  the  Trinity  House,  going  to  make  a 
new  harbor  ;  or  maybe  a  light-house.  And  then  we'd  bet- 
ter not  meddle  wi'  him." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  he  be.  He  's  that  here  government 
chap  as  the  doctor  said  he  'd  bring  down  to  set  our  drains 
right." 

"  If  he  goes  meddling  with  our  drains,  and  knocking  of 
our  back  yards  about,  he  '11  find  himself  over  quay  before 
he's  done," 

"  Steady  !    steady  !     He  come  with  my  loord,  mind." 

"He  miglit  a'taken  in  his  loordship,  and  be  a  Roossian 
spy  to  the  bottom  of  him  after  all.  They  mak'  munselves 
up  into  all  manner  of  disguisements,  specially  beards.  I've 
Beed  the  Roossians  with  their  beards  many  a  time" 

"  Maybe 'tis  witchcraft.  Look  to  mun,  putting  mun'a 
head  under  that  black  bag  now  !  He  'm  after  no  good,  I  'II 
warrant.     If  they  be  n't  works  of  darkness,  ndiut  be  ?  " 


28t)  THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITtH. 

"  Leastwise  he  'm  no  right  to  go  spying  here  on  our  quay, 
and  never  ax  with  your  leave,  or  by  your  leave.  1  '11  just 
goo  mak'  num  out." 

And  Claud(!,  who  had  just  retreated  into  his  tent,  had  the 
pleasure  of  finding  the  curtain  suddenly  withdrawn,  and  ae 
a  flood  of  light  rushed  in,  spoiling  his  daguerreotype  plate, 
hearing  a  voice  as  of  a  sleepy  bear,  — 

"  Ax  your  pardon,  sir  ;  but  what  be  you  arter  here  ?  " 
"  Murder  !    shut  the  screen  I  "     But  it  was  too  late  ;  and 
Claude  came  out,  while  the  eldest-born  of  Anak  stood  sternly 
inquiring,  — 

"  I  say,  what  be  you  arter  here,  mak'  so  boold  ?  " 
"  Taking  sun-pictures,  my  good  sir  ;  and  you  have  spoilt 
one  for  me." 

"  Sun-picturs,  saith  a  ?  "  in  a  very  incredulous  tone. 
"  Daguerreotypes  of  the  place  for  Lord  Scoutbush." 
"0  !  —  if  it 's  his  lordship's  wish,  of  course  !  Oidy  things 
is  very  well  as  the}'-  are,  and  needs  no  mending,  thank  God. 
Only,  ax  pardon,  sir.  You  see,  we  don't  generally  allow 
no  interfering  on  our  pier  without  lave,  sir  ;  the  pier  being 
ourn,  we  pays  for  the  repairing,  ^o,  if  his  lordship  intends 
making  of  alterations,  he  'd  better  to  have  spoken  to  us 

first. "° 

"Alterations?"  said  Claude,  laughing;  "the  place  is 
far  too  pretty  to  need  any  improvement." 

"  Glad  you  think  so,  sir  !     But  whatever  be  you  arter 

here  ?  " 

"Taking  views!  I 'm  a  painter,  an  artist!  I'll  take 
your  portrait,  if  you  like  1  "  said  Claude,  laughing  more 
and  more. 

"Bless  my  heart,  what  vules  we  be!  'T  is  a  paainter 
gentleman,  lads  !  "    roared  he. 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  take  me  for  ?    A  Russian  spy  ?  " 

The  elder  shook  his  head  :  grinned  solemnly ;  and  peace 
was  concluded.  "  We  'm  old-fashioned  folks  here,  you  see, 
sir  ;  and  don't  like  no  new-fangled  meddle-comes.  You  '11 
excuse  us  ;  you  'm  very  welcome  to  do  what  you  like,  and 
glad  to  free  you  here."  And  the  old  fellow  made  a  stately 
bow,  and  moved  away. 

"  No,  no  !  you  must  stay  and  have  your  portrait  taken  ; 
you  '11  make  a  fine  picture." 

"  Hum  ;  might  ha',  they  used  to  say,  thirty  years  agone  ; 
I  'm   over  old  now.     Still,  my  old  woman  might  like  it 
Make  so  bold,  sir,  but  what's  your  charge  ?  " 


THE   CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  287 

"1  charge  nothing.  Five  minutes' talk  with  an  Lonest 
man  will  pay  me." 

"  Hum  ;  if  you  'd  a  let  me  pay  you,  sir,  well  and  good  ; 
but  I  maunt  take  up  your  time  for  naught  ;  that 's  not 
fair." 

However,  Claude  prevailed,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  had  all 
the  sailors  on  the  quay  round  him  ;  and  one  after  another 
came  forward  blushing  and  grinning  to  be  "  taken  off."  Soon 
the  children  gathered  round,  and  when  Valencia  and  Major 
Campbell  came  on  the  pier,  they  found  Claude  in  the  midst 
of  a  ring  of  little  dark-haired  angels  ;  while  a  dozen  honest 
fellows  grinned  when  their  own  visages  appeared,  and 
chaffed  each  other  about  the  sweethearts  who  were  to  keep 
them  while  they  were  out  at  sea.  And  in  the  midst  little 
Claude  laughed  and  joked,  and  told  good  stories,  and  gave 
himself  up,  the  simple,  sunny-hearted  fellow,  to  the  pleasure 
of  pleasing,  till  he  earned  from  one  And  all  the  character  of 
"  the  pleasant-spokenest  gentleman  that  ever  was  into  the 
town." 

"Here's  her  ladyship  !  make  room  for  her  ladyship  !  " 
But  Claude  held  up  a  warning  hand.  He  had  just  arranged 
a  master-piece,  —  half  a  dozen  of  the  prettiest  children,  sit- 
ting beneath  a  broken  boat,  on  spars,  sails,  blocks,  lobster 
pots,  and  what  not,  arranged  in  picturesque  confusion ; 
while  the  black-bearded  sea-kings  round  were  promising 
them  rock  and  bull's-ej'^es,  if  they  would  only  sit  still  like 
"gude  maids." 

But  at  Valencia's  coming  the  children  all  looked  round, 
and  jumped  up,  and  curtsied,  and  then  were  afraid  to  sit 
down  again. 

"  You  have  spoilt  my  group.  Miss  St.  Just,  and  you 
must  mend  it !  " 

Valencia  caught  the  humor,  regrouped  them  all  forth- 
with ;  and  then  placed  herself  in  front  of  them  by  Claude's 
Bide. 

"  Now,  be  good  children  !  Look  straight  at  me,  and 
listen  !  "  And,  lifting  up  her  finger,  she  began  to  sing  the 
first  song  of  which  she  could  think,  "The  Landing  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers." 

She  had  no  need  to  bid  the  children  look  at  her  and  listen  ; 
for  not  only  they,  but  every  face  upon  the  pier  was  fixed 
upon  her  ;  breathless,  spell-bound,  at  once  by  her  magnifi- 
cent beauty  and  her  magnificent  voice,  as  up  rose,  leaping 
into  the  clear  summer  air,  and  rolling  away  over  the  still 
blue  sea,  that  glorious  melody  which  has  now  become  the 


288  THE    CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

national  anthem  to  the  nobler  half  of  the  New  World.  ITonui 
to  woman,  and  honor  to  old  England,  that  from  Felicia  Ilo- 
mans  came  the  song  which  will  last,  perhaps,  when  modern 
Europe  shall  have  shared  the  fate  of  ancient  Eome  and 
Greece. 

Valencia's  singing  was  the  reflex  of  her  own  character  ; 
and  therefore,  perhaps,  all  the  more  fitted  to  the  song,  the 
place,  and  the  audience.  It  was  no  modest  cooing  voice, 
tender,  suggestive,  trembling  with  suppressed  emotion,  such 
as,  even  though  narrow  in  compass,  and  dull  in  quality,  will 
touch  the  deepest  fibres  of  the  heart,  and,  as  delicate  scents 
will  sometimes  do,  wake  up  long-forgotten  dreams,  which 
eeem  memories  of  some  antenatal  life. 

It  was  clear,  rich,  massive,  of  extraordinary  compass, 
and  yet  full  of  all  the  graceful  ease,  the  audacious  frolic,  of 
perfect  physical  health,  and  strength,  and  beauty.  Had 
there  been  a  trace  of  effort  in  it,  it  might  have  been  accused 
of  "  bravura  ;  "  but  there  was  no  need  of  effort  where  nature 
had  bestowed  already  an  all  but  perfect  organ,  and  all  that 
was  left  for  science  was,  to  teach  not  power,  but  control. 
Above  all,  it  was  a  voice  which  you  trusted  ;  after  the  first 
three  notes,  you  felt  that  that  perfect  ear,  that  perfect 
throat,  could  never,  even  by  the  thousandth  part  of  a  note, 
fall  short  of  melody  ;  and  you  gave  your  soul  up  to  it,  and 
cast  yourself  upon  it,  to  bear  you  up  and  away,  like  a  fairy 
steed,  whither  it  would,  down  into  the  abysses  of  sadness, 
and  up  to  the  highest  heaven  of  joy  ;  as  did  those  wild  and 
rough,  and  yet  tender-hearted  and  imaginative  men  that 
day,  while  every  face  spoke  new  delight,  and  hung  upon 
those  glorious  notes,  — 

•'  As  one  who  drinks  from  a  charmed  cup 

Of  sparkling,  and  foaming,  and  murmuring  wine  —  " 

and   not  one  of  them,  had  he  had  the  gilt  of  words,  bul 
might  have  said  with  the  poet:  — 

•'I  have  no  life,  Constantia,  now  hut  thee. 

While,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy  Bong 

Flows  on,  and  fills  all  tilings  with  melody. 
Now  is  thy  voice  a  tempest  swift  and  strong. 

On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne, 
Secure  o'er  rocks  and  waves  I  sweep, 

Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn. 

Now  'tis  the  breath  of  summer  night, 

Which,  when  the  starry  waters  sleep 

Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms  bright, 
Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous  flight." 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH.  2^9 

At  last  it  ceased :  and  all  men  drew  their  breaths  onco 
more  ;  while  a  low  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  tha 
crowd,  too  well-bred  to  applaud  openly,  as  they  loug-ed  to  do 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that,  Gentleman  Jan  ?  " 

"  Or  see  ?  I  used  to  say  no  one  could  hold  a  candle  tc 
our  Grace  ;  but  she  —  she  looked  like  a  born  queen  all  the 
time  !  " 

"  Well,  she  belongs  to  us,  too  —  so  we  've  a  right  to  be 
proud  other.     Why,  here  's  our  Grace  all  the  while  !  " 

Tine  enough  ;  Grace  had  been  standing  among  the  crowd 
all  the  while,  rapt,  like  them,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Valencia, 
and  full,  too,  of  tears.  They  had  been  called  up  first  by  the 
melody  itself,  and  then,  by  a  chain  of  thought  peculiar  to 
Grace,  by  the  fiices  round  her. 

"  Ah  1  if  Grace  had  been  here  !  "  cried  one,  "  we  'd  have 
had  her  dra'ed  off  in  the  midst  of  the  children." 

"  Ah  !  that  would  ha'  been  as  nat'ral  as  life  !  " 

"  Silence  you  !  "  says  Gentleman  Jan,  who  generally  feels 
a  mission  to  teach  the  rest  of  the  quay  good  manners,  "'tis 
the  gentleman's  pleasure  to  settle  who  he  '11  dra'  off,  and 
not  wer'n." 

To  which  abnormal  possessive  pronoun,  Claude  re- 
joined, — 

"  Not  a  bit !  whatever  you  like.  I  could  not  have  a  bet- 
ter figure  for  the  centre.     I  '11  begin  again." 

"  0,  do  come  and  sit  among  the  children,  Grace  !  "  says 
Valencia. 

"  No,  thank  your  ladyship." 

Valencia  began  urging  her  ;  and  many  a  voice  round,  old 
as  well  as  young,  backed  the  entreaty. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  lady,"  and  she  slipped  into  the  crowd  ; 
but  as  she  went  she  spoke  low,  but  clear  enough  to  be 
heard  by  all :  "  No  ;  it  will  be  time  enough  to  flatter  me, 
and  ask  for  my  picture,  when  you  do  what  I  tell  you  —  what 
God  tells  you  !  " 

"  What's  that,  then,  Grace,  dear  ?  " 

"You  know!  I've  asked  you  to  save  your  own  lives 
from  cholera,  and  you  have  not  the  common  sense  to  do  it. 
Let  me  go  home  and  pray  for  you  !  " 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  among  the  men,  till  some 
fellow  said,  — 

"  She  'm  gone  mad  after  that  doctor,  I  think,  with  hia 
muck-hunting  notions." 

And  Grace  went  home,  to  await  the  hour  of  afternooi' 
Bchool. 

25 


2D0       THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 

"  What  a  face  ! '"  said  Mellot. 

"Is  it  not?  Come  and  see  her  in  her  school,  when  th« 
children  go  in  at  two  o'clock.  Ah  !  there  are  Scoutbush 
and  Saint  Pere." 

"  We  are  g-  ing  to  the  school,  my  lord.  Don't  you  think 
that,  as  a  patron  of  things  in  general  here,  it  would  look 
well  if  3^ou  walked  in,  and  signified  your  full  approbatiou  of 
what  you  know  nothing  about  ?  " 

"  So  much  so,  that  I  was  just  on  my  way  there  with 
Campbell.  But  I  must  just  speak  to  that  lime-burning  fel- 
low. He  wants  a  new  lease  of  the  kiln,  and  I  suppose  he 
must  have  it.  At  least,  here  he  comes,  running  at  me 
open-mouthed,  and  as  dry  as  his  own  waistband.  It  makes 
one  thirsty  to  look  at  him.  I  '11  catch  you  up  in  five  min- 
utes !  " 

So  the  three  went  off  to  the  school. 
****** 

Grace  was  telling,  in  her  own  sweet  way,  that  charming 
story  of  the  Three  Truuts,  which,  by  the  by  has  been  lately 
pirated  (as  many  tilings  are)  by  a  religious  author,  whose 
book  differs  sufficiently  from  the  liberal  aryl  wholesome 
morality  of  the  true  author  of  the  tale. 

"  What  a  beautiful  story,  Grace  !  "  said  Valencia.  "  You 
will  surpass  Hans  Anderssen  some  day." 

Grace  blushed  and  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  It  is  not  my  own,  my  lady." 

"  Not  your  own  ?  I  should  have  thought  that  no  one 
but  you  and  Anderssen  could  have  made  such  an  ending  to 
it." 

Grace  gave  her  one  of  those  beseeching,  half-reproachful 
looks,  with  which  she  always  answered  praise  ;  and  then,  — ■ 
"  Would  you  like  to  hear  the  children  repeat  a  hymn,  my 
lady?" 

"  No.     I  want  to  know  where  that  story  came  from." 

Grace  blushed,  and  stammered. 

"I  know  where,"  said  Campbell.  "You  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  having  read  the  book.  Miss  Harvey.  I  doubt 
not  that  you  took  all  the  good  from  it,  and  none  of  the  harm, 
if  harm  there  be." 

Grace  looked  at  him,  at  once  surprised  and  relieved. 

"  It  was  a  foolish  romance-book,  sir,  as  you  seem  to  know 
P  was  the  only  one  which  I  ever  read,  except  Hans  Anders- 
Ben's, —  which  are  not  romances,  after  all.     But  the  begin- 
ning was  so  full  of  God's  truth,  sir,  —  romance  though  it 
was,  —  and  gave  me  such  precious  new  light  about  educat- 


THE   CEUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  291 

mg  children,  that  I  was  led  on  unawares.  I  hope  I  was  not 
wrong'." 

"  This  school-room  proves  that  3'ou  were  not,"  said 
Campbell.     "  '  To  tlie  pure,  all  things  are  pure.'  " 

"  What  is  this  mysterious  book?  I  must  know!"  said 
Valencia. 

"  A  very  noble  romance,  which  I  made  Mellot  read  once, 
containing  the  ideal  education  of  an  English  nobleman  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century." 

"The  Fool  of  Quality?"  said  Mellot.  "Of  course!  I 
thought  I  had  heard  the  story  before.  What  a  well-writ- 
ten book  it  is,  too,  in  spite  of  all  extravagance  and  prolixity  ! 
And  how  wonderfully  ahead  of  his  generation  the  man  who 
wrote  it,  in  politics  as  well  as  in  religion  !  " 

"  I  must  read  it,"  said  Valencia.  "  You  must  lend  it  me, 
Saint  Pere." 

"Not  yet,  I  think." 

"Why  ?  "  whispered  she,  pouting.  "I  suppose  I  am  not 
as  pure  as  Grace  Ilarvey  ?  " 

"  She  has  the  children  to  educate,  who  are  daily  in  con- 
tact with  coaiise  sins,  of  which  j^ou  know  nothing  —  of 
which  she  cannot  help  knowing.  It  was  written  in  an  age 
when  the  morals  of  our  class  (more  shame  to  us)  were  on 
the  same  level  with  the  morals  of  her  class  now.  Let  it 
alone.  I  often  have  fancied  I  should  edit  a  corrected  edi- 
tion of  it.     When  I  do,  you  shall  read  that." 

"  Now,  Miss  Ilarvey,"  said  Mellot,  who  had  never  taken 
his  ej^es  off  her  face,  "  I  want  to  turn  schoolmaster,  and 
give  your  children  a  drawing  lesson.  Get  your  slates,  all 
of  3'ou  !  " 

And,  taking  possession  of  the  blackboard  and  a  piece  of 
chalk,  Claude  began  sketching  them  imps  and  angels,  dogs 
and  horses,  till  tlie  school  rang  with  slirieks  of  delight. 

"Now,"  said  he,  wiping  the  board,  "I'll  draw  some- 
thing, and  you  shall  copy  it." 

And,  without  taking  off  his  hand,  he  drew  a  single  line  ; 
and  a  profile  head  sprang  up,  as  if  by  magic,  under  hig 
firm,  unerring  touch. 

"Somebody!"  "A  lady!"  "No  'tan't;  'tis  school- 
mistress !  " 

"You  can't  copy  that:  I'll  draw  you  another  face," 
And  he  sketched  a  full  face  on  the  board. 

"That's  my  lady."  "No,  it's  schoolmistress  again!" 
■'  No,  it's  not!" 

"Not  quite  sure,  my  dears?"  said  Claude,  half  to  him 


292        THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 

self.  "  Then  here  !  "  and,  wiping  the  board  once  moie,  he 
drew  a  three-quarters  face,  wliich  elicited  a  shout  of  appro- 
bation. 

"That's  schoolmistress,  her  very  self!  " 

"  Then  you  cannot  do  anything  better  than  try  and  draw 
it.  I  '11  show  you  how."  And,  going  over  the  lines  again, 
one  by  one,  the  crafty  Claude  pretended  to  be  giving  a 
drawing  lesson,  while  he  was  really  studying  every  feature 
of  his  model. 

"  If  you  please,  my  lady,"  whispered  Grace  to  Valencia, 
"  I  wish  the  gentleman  would  not." 

"  Why  not>" 

"  0,  madam,  I  do  not  judge  any  one  else ;  but  why 
should  this  poor,  perishing  flesh  be  put  into  a  picture  ?  We 
wear  it  but  for  a  little  while,  and  are  blessed  when  we  get 
rid  of  its  burden.  Why  wish  to  keep  a  copy  of  what  we 
long  to  be  delivered  from  ?  " 

"  It  will  please  the  children,  Grace,"  said  Valencia,  puz- 
zled. "  See  how  they  are  all  trying  to  cop}^  it,  from  love  of 
you." 

"  Who  am  I  ?  I  want  them  to  do  things  from  love  of  God. 
No,  madam,  I  was  pained  (and  no  offence  to  3'ou)  when  1 
was  asked  to  have  my  likeness  taken  on  the  quay.  There  's 
no  sin  in  it,  of  course  ;  but  let  those  who  are  going  away  to 
sea,  and  have  friends  at  home,  have  their  pictures  taken  — 
not  one  who  wishes  to  leave  behind  her  no  likeness  of  hei* 
own,  only  Christ's  likeness  in  these  children  ;  and  to  painc 
him  to  other  people,  not  to  be  painted  herself  Do  ask  him 
to  rub  it  out,  my  lady  !  " 

"  Why,  Grace,  we  were  all  just  wishing  to  have  a  like- 
ness of  you.  Every  one  has  their  picture  taken  for  a 
remembrance." 

"  The  saints  and  martyrs  never  had  theirs,  as  far  as  I 
ever  heard,  and  yet  they  are  not  forgotten  yet.  I  know  it 
is  the  way  of  great  people  like  you.  I  saw  your  picture 
once,  in  a  book  Miss  lleale  had  ;  and  did  not  wonder,  when 
I  saw  it,  that  people  wished  to  remember  such  a  face  as 
yours  ;  and  since  I  have  seen  you,  I  wonder  still  less." 

"  My  picture  ?  where  ?  " 

"In  a  book  —  '  The  Book  of  Beauty,'  I  believe  they 
called  it." 

"  My  dear  Grace,"  said  Valencia,  laughing  and  blushing, 
"  if  you  ever  looked  in  your  glass,  you  must  know  that  you 
are  quite  as  worthy  of  a  place  in  '  The  Book  of  Beauty  '  as 
I  am." 


THE    CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  293 

Grace  shook  her  head  with  a  serious  smile.  "  Every  one 
111  their  place,  madam.  I  cannot  help  knowing-  that  God 
has  given  me  a  gift ;  but  why,  I  cannot  tell.  Certainly  not 
^or  the  same  purpose  as  he  gave  it  to  you  for,  —  a  simple 
country  girl  like  me.  If  he  have  any  use  for  it,  he  will  use 
it,  as  he  does  all  his  ci-eatures,  without  my  help.  At  all 
events  it  will  not  last  long  ;  a  few  years  more,  perhaps  a 
few  months,  and  it  will  be  food  for  worms  ;  and  then  people 
will  care  as  little  about  my  looks  as  I  care  now.  1  wish, 
my  lady,  you  would  stop  the  gentleman  !  " 

"  Mr.  Metlot,  draw  the  children  something  simpler, 
please;  —  a  dog  or  a  cat."  And  she  gave  Claude  a  look 
which  he  obeyed. 

Valencia  felt  in  a  more  solemn  mood  than  usual  as  she 
walked  home  that  day. 

"  Well,"  said  Claude,  "  I  have  here  every  line  and  shade, 
and  she  cannot  escape  me.  I  '11  go  on  board,  and  paint  her 
right  off  from  memory,  while  it  is  fresh.  Why  !  here  come 
Scoutbush  and  the  major." 

"  Miss  Harvey,"  said  Scoutbush,  — trying,  as  he  said  to 
Campbell,  "  to  look  as  grand  as  a  sheep-dog  among  a  pack 
of  fox-hounds,  and  very  thankful  all  the  while  that  he  had 
no  tail  to  be  bitten  oft","  —  "  Miss  Harvey,  I  —  we  —  have 
heard  a  great  deal  in  praise  of  your  school ;  ard  so  I  thought 
I  should  like  to  come  and  see  it." 

"Would  your  lordship  like  to  examine  the  children?" 
says  Grace,   curtsying  to  the  ground. 

"No  —  thanks  —  that  is  —  1  have  no  douV/t  you  teach 
them  all  that  's  right,  and  we  are  exceedingly  gratified  with 
the  way  in  which  you  conduct  the  school.  I  say,  Val.," 
cried  Scoutbush,  who  could  support  the  part  of  patron  no 
longer,  "  what  pretty  little  ducks  they  are  !  I  wish  I  had  a 
dozen  of  them  !  Come  you  here  !  "  and  down  he  sat  on  a 
bench,  and  gathered  a  group  round  him. 

"  Now,  are  you  all  good  children  ?  I  'm  sure  you  look 
so  !  "  said  he,  looking  round  into  the  bright  pure  faces,  fresh 
from  heaven,  and  feeling  himself  the  nearer  heaven  as  he 
did  so.  "  Ah!  I  see  Mr.  Mellot's  been  drawing  you  pic- 
tures. He  's  a  clever  man,  a  wonderful  man,  is  n't  he  ?  I 
can't  draw  you  pictures,  nor  tell  you  stories,  like  your 
schoolmistress.     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Sing  to  them,  Fred  !  "  said  Valencia. 

And  he  began  warbling  a  funny  song,  with  a  child  on 
each  knee,  and  his  arms  round  three  or  four  more,  while  the 
little  faces  looked  up  into  his,  half  awe-struck  at  the  preo- 
■2o* 


294  THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

ence  of  a  live  lord,  half  lon^ng  to  laugh,  but  not  sure 
whether  it  would  be  right. 

Valencia  and  Campbell  stood  close  together,  exchanging 
looks. 

"Dear  fellow!"  whispered  she;  "so  simple  and  good 
when  he  is  himself!  And  he  must  go  to  that  dreadful 
war !  " 

"Never  mind.  Perhaps  by  this  very  act  he  is  earning 
permission  to  come  back  again,  a  wiser  and  a  more  useful 
man." 

"How  then?" 

"  Is  he  not  making  friends  with  angels  who  always  behold 
our  Father's  face  ?  At  least  he  is  showing  capabilities  of 
good,  which  God  gave ;  and  which,  therefore,  God  will 
never  waste." 

"  Now,  shall  I  sing  you  another  song?  " 

"  0,  yes,  please  !  "  rose  from  a  dozen  little  mouths. 

"  You  must  not  be  troublesome  to  his  lordship,"  says 
Grace. 

"  0,  no,  I  like  it.  I  '11  sing  them  one  more  song,  and 
then  —  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Miss  Harvey." 

Grace  curtsied,  blushed,  and  shook  all  over.  What  could 
Lord  Scoutbush  want  to  say  to  her? 

That  indeed  was  not  very  easy  to  discover  at  first ;  for 
Scoutbush  felt  so  strongly  the  oddity  of  taking  a  pretty 
young  woman  into  his  counsel  on  a  question  of  sanitary 
reform,  that  he  felt  mightily  inclined  to  laugh,  and  began 
beating  about  the  bush  in  a  sufficiently  confused  fashion. 

"  Well,  Miss  Harvey,  I  am  exceedingly  pleased  with — ■ 
with  what  I  have  seen  of  the  school  —  that  is,  what  my 
sister  tells,  and  the  clergyman  —  " 

"The  clergyman?"  thought  Grace,  surprised,  as  she 
might  well  be,  at  what  was  entirely  an  impromptu  invention 
of  his  lordship's. 

"And  —  and  —  there  is  ten  pounds  toward  the  school, 
and  —  and,  I  will  give  an  annual  subscription  the  same 
amount," 

"  Mr.  Headley  receives  the  subscriptions,  my  lord,"  said 
Grace,  drawing  back  from  the  profi'ered  note. 

"  Of  course,"  quoth  Scoutbush,  trusting  again  to  an 
impromptu  ;  "  but  this  is  for  yourself — a  small  mark  o."our 
sense  of  your  —  your  usefulness." 

If  any  one  has  expected  that  Grace  is  about  to  conduct 
herself,  during  this  interview,  in  anywise  like  a  prophetess, 
tragedy  queen,  or  other  exalted  personage  ;  to  stand  upon 


THE   CRUISE   OP   THE   WATERWITCH.  295 

,',er  native  independence,  and,  scorning  the  bounty  of  an 
aristocrat,  to  read  the  said  aristocrat  a  lecture  on  his  duties 
and  responsibilities,  as  landlord  of  Aberalva  town  ;  then 
will  that  person  be  altogether  disappointed.  It  would  have 
looked  very  grand,  doubtless ;  but  it  would  have  been 
equally  untrue  to  Grace's  womanhood,  and  to  her  notions 
of  Christianity.  Whether  all  men  were  or  were  not  equal 
in  the  siglit  ot  Heaven,  was  a  notion  which  had  never  crossed 
her  mind.  She  knew  that  they  would  all  be  equal  in  heaven, 
and  that  was  enough  for  her.  Meanwhile,  she  found  lords 
and  ladies  on  earth,  and,  seeing  no  open  sin  in  the  fact  of 
their  being  richer  and  more  powerful  than  she  was,  she  sup- 
posed that  God  had  put  them  where  they  Avere  ;  and  she 
accepted  them  simply  as  facts  of  his  kingdom.  Of  course 
they  had  their  duties,  as  every  one  has  ;  but  what  they 
were  she  did  not  know,  or  care  to  know.  To  their  own 
master  they  stood  or  fell ;  her  business  was  with  her  own 
duties,  and  with  her  own  class,  whose  good  and  evil  she 
understood  by  practical  experience.  So,  when  a  live  lord 
made  his  appearance  in  her  school,  she  looked  at  him  with 
vague  wonder  and  admiration,  as  a  being  out  of  some  other 
planet,  for  whom  she  had  no  gauge  or  measure  ;  she  only 
believed  that  he  had  vast  powers  of  doing  good  unknown 
to  her ;  and  was  delighted  by  seeing  him  condescend  to 
play  with  her  children.  The  truth  may  be  degrading,  but 
it  must  be  told.  People,  of  course,  who  know  the  hoUow- 
ness  of  the  world,  and  the  vanity  of  human  wealth  and 
honor,  and  are  accustomed  to  live  with  lords  and  ladies,  see 
through  all  that,  just  as  clearly  as  any  American  republican 
does  ;  and  care  no  more  about  walking  down  Pall-Mali  with 
the  Marquis  of  Carabas,  who  can  get  them  a  place  or  a  liv- 
ing, than  with  Mr.  Two-shoes,  who  can  only  borrow  ten 
pounds  of  them  ;  but  Grace  was  a  poor,  simple  West  country 
girl ;  and  as  such  we  must  excuse  her,  if,  curtsying  to  the 
very  ground,  with  tears  of  gratitude  in  her  eyes,  she  took 
the  ten-pound  note,  saying  to  herself,  "  Thank  the  good 
Lord  !     This  will  just  pay  mother's  account  at  the  mill." 

Likewise  we  must  excuse  her  if  she  trembled  a  little, 
being  a  young  woman  —  though  being  also  a  lady,  she  lost 
no  jot  of  self-possession  —  when  his  lordship  went  on  in  as 
Important  a  tone  as  he  could  — 

"  And  —  and  I  hear.  Miss  Harvey,  that  you  have  a  great 
influence  over  these  children's  parents." 

"  I  am  afraid  some  one  has  misinformed  your  lordf»hip,' 
said  Grace,  in  a  low  voice. 


296  THE   CRUISE    OF   THE  WATERWITCH. 

"  Ah  !  "  quoth  Scoutbush,  in  a  tone  meant  to  be  reassun 
ing-;  "  it  is  quite  proper  in  you  to  say  so.  What  eyes  she 
has  !  and  what  hair  !  and  what  hands,  too  1  "  (This  was, 
of  course,  spoken  mentally.)  "  But  we  know  better  ;  and 
we  want  you  to  speak  to  them,  whenever  you  can,  about 
keeping  their  houses  clean,  and  all  that,  in  case  the  cholera 
should  come."  And  Scoutbush  stopped.  It  was  a  quaint 
errand  enough  ;  and,  besides,  as  he  told  Mellot  frankly,  "  I 
could  think  of  nothing  but  those  wonderful  eyes  of  hers, 
and  how  like  they  were  to  La  Signora's." 

Grace  had  been  looking  at  the  ground  all  the  while.  Now 
Bhe  threw  upon  him  one  of  her  sudden,  startled  looks,  and 
answered  slowly,  as  her  eyes  dropped  again  : 

"  I  have,  my  lord  ;  but  they  will  not  listen  to  me." 

"  Won't  listen  to  you  ?  Then  to  whom  will  they 
listen  ?  " 

"To  God,  when  He  speaks  himself,"  said  she,  still 
looking  on  the  ground.  Scoutbush  winced  uneasily.  He 
was  not  accustomed  to  solemn  words,  spoken  so  solemnly. 

"  Do  you  hear  this,  Campbell  ?  Miss  Harvey  has  been 
talking  to  these  people  already,  and  they  won't  hear  her." 

"  Miss  Harvey,  1  dare  say,  is  not  astonished  at  that.  It  is 
the  usual  fate  of  those  who  try  to  put  a  little  common  sense 
into  their  fellow-men." 

"  Well,  and  I  shall,  at  all  events,  go  off  and  give  them  my 
mind  on  the  matter  ;  though,  I  suppose,"  —  with  a  glance  at 
Grace,  —  "I  can't  expect  to  be  heard  where  Miss  Harvey 
has  not  been." 

"  0,  my  lord  !  "  cried  Grace,  "  if  you  would  but  speak 

"     And  there  she  stopped  ;  for  was  it  her  place  to  tell 

him  his  duty  ?     No  doubt  he  had  wiser  people  than  her  to 
counsel  him. 

But,  tl^e  moment  that  the  party  left  the  school,  Grace 
dropped  into  her  chair  ;  her  head  fell  on  the  table,  and  she 
burst  into  an  agony  of  weeping,  which  brought  the  whole 
schojl  round  her. 

"  0,  my  darlings  !  my  darlings  !  "  cried  she,  at  last  look- 
ing up,  and  clasping  them  to  her  by  twos  and  threes  :  "  Is 
there  no  way  of  saving  you  ?  No  way  ?  Then  we  must 
make  the  more  haste  to  be  good,  and  be  all  ready  when 
Jesus  comes  to  take  us."  And  shaking  off  her  passion 
with  one  strong  effort,  she  began  teaching  those  children 
as  she  had  never  taught  them  before,  with  a  voice,  a  look,  as 
of  Stephen  himself  when  he  saw  the  heavens  opened. 


THE    CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH.  297 

For  that  burst  of  weeping  was  the  one  single  overflow  of 
long  pent  passion,  disappointment,  shame. 

Slie  had  tried,  indeed.  Ever  since  Tom's  conversation 
and  Frank's  sermon  had  poured  in  a  flood  of  new  light  on 
the  meaning  of  epidemics,  and  bodily  misery,  and  death 
itself,  she  had  been  working,  as  only  she  could  work  ;  ex- 
horting, explaining,  coaxing,  warning,  entreating  with  tears, 
offering  to  perform  with  her  own  hands  the  most  sickening 
offices  ;  to  become,  if  no  one  else  would,  the  common  scav- 
enger of  the  town.  There  was  no  depth  to  which  'n  her 
noble  enthusiasm,  she  would  not  have  gone  down.  And 
behold,  it  had  been  utterly'  in  vain  !  Ah  !  the  bitter  disap- 
pointment of  finding  her  influence  fail  her  utterly,  the  first 
time  that  it  was  required  for  a  great  practical  work  I  They 
would  let  her  talk  to  them  about  their  souls,  then  !  They 
would  even  amend  a  few  sins,  here  and  there,  of  which  they 
had  been  all  along  as  well  aware  as  she.  But  to  be  convinced 
of  a  new  sin  ;  to  have  their  laziness,  pride,  covetousness, 
touched  ;  that,  she  found,  was  what  they  would  not  bear  ; 
and  where  she  had  expected,  if  not  thanks,  at  least  a  fair 
hearing,  she  had  been  met  with  peevishness,  ridicule,  even 
anger  and  insult. 

Her  mother  had  turned  against  her.  "Why  would  she 
go  getting  a  bad  name  from  every  one,  and  driving  away 
customers  ?  "  The  preachers,  who  were  —  as  is  but  too 
common  in  West  country  villages  —  narrow,  ignorant,  and 
somewhat  unscrupulous  men,  turned  against  her.  They 
had  considered  the  cholera,  if  it  was  to  come,  as  so  much 
spiritual  capital  for  themselves  ;  an  occasion  which  they 
could  "  improve  "  into  a  sensation,  perhaps  a  "  revival  ;  " 
and  to  explain  it  upon  mere  physical  causes  was  to  rob  them 
of  their  harvest.  Coarse  vii'agos  went  even  further  still, 
and  dared  to  ask  her  "  whether  it  was  the  curate  or  the 
doctor  she  was  setting  her  cap  at ;  for  she  never  had  any- 
thing in  her  mouth  now  but  what  they  had  said  ? "  And 
those  words  went  through  her  heart  like  a  sword  ?  Was 
she  disinterested  ?  Was  not  love  for  Thurnall,  the  wish 
to  please  him,  mingling  with  all  her  earnestness  ?  And 
again  :  was  not  self-love  mingling  with  it,  and  mingling, 
too,  with  the  disappointment,  even  indignation,  which  she 
felt  at  having  failed  ?  Ah  !  what  hitherto  hidden  spots  of 
self-conceit,  vanity,  pharisaic  pride,  that  bitter  trial  laid 
bare,  or  seemed  to  lay,  till  she  learned  to  thank  her  unseen 
Guide  even  for  it ! 

Perhaps  she  had  more  reason  to  be  thankful  for  her  humil- 


298  THE    CRUISE    OF    THE   WATERWITCH. 

ialion  than  she  could  suspect,  with  her  narrow  knowledge  of 
the  world.  Perhaps  that  sudden  downi'all  of  lier  lancied 
qucenship  was  needed  to  shut  her  out,  once  and  lor  all, 
from  that  downward  path  of  spiritual  intoxication,  Ibllowed 
by  spiritual  knavery,  which,  as  has  been  hinted,  was  but  too 
easy  for  her. 

But,  meanwhile,  the  whole  thing  was  but  a  fresh  misery. 
To  bear  the  burden  of  Cassandra  day  and  night,  seeing  in 
fancy  —  which  yet  was  truth  —  the  black  shadow  of  death 
hanging  ov'er  that  doomed  place  ;  to  dream  of  whom  it  might 
sweep  off;  — perliaps,  worst  of  all,  her  mother,  unconfessed 
and  impenitent ! 

Too  dreadful !  And  dreadful,  too,  the  private  troubles 
which  were  thickening  fast ;  and  which  seemed,  instead 
of  drawing  her  mother  to  her  side,  to  estrange  her  more 
and  more,  for  some  mysterious  reason.  Iler  mother  was 
heavily  in  debt.  This  ten  pounds  of  Lord  Scoutbush's 
would  certainly  clear  off  the  miller's  bill.  Her  scanty 
quarter's  salary,  which  was  just  due,  would  clear  off  a  little 
more.  But  there  was  a  long-standing  account  of  the  whole- 
sale grocer's  for  five-and-twenty  pounds,  i'or  which  Mrs. 
Harvey  had  given  a  two  months'  bill.  That  bill  would 
become  due  early  in  September ;  and  how  to  meet  it 
neither  mother  nor  daughter  knew  ;  it  lay  like  a  black 
plague-spot  on  the  future,  only  surpassed  in  horror  by  the 
cholera  itself. 

It  might  have  been  three  or  four  days  after,  that 
Claude,  lounging  after  breakfast  on  deck,  was  hailed 
from  a  dingy,  which  contained  Captain  Willis  and  Gentle- 
man Jan. 

"  Might  we  take  the  liberty  of  coming  aboard  to  speak 
with  your  honor  ?  " 

"  By  all  means  !  "  and  up  the  side  they  came  ;  their  faces 
evidently  big  with  some  great  purpose,  and  each  desirous 
that  the  other  should  begin. 

"You  speak,  captain,"  saj's  Jan;  "  you 'm  oldest;" 
and  then  he  began  himself.  "  If  you  please,  sir,  we  'm 
come  on  a  sort  of  a  deputation  —  Why  don't  you  tell  the 
gentleman,  captain  ?  " 

Willis  seemed  either  doubtful  of  the  success  of  his  dep- 
utation, or  not  over-desirous  thereof;  for,  after  trying  to  put 
John  Beer  forward  as  spokesman,  he  began  : 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir,  but  these  young  men 
will  have  it  so  —  and  no  shame  to  them  —  on  a  matter 
which  I  think  will  come  to  nothing.     But  the  truth  is,  they 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH.  299 

have  heard  that  you  are  a  great  painter,  and  they  have 
taken  it  into  their  heads  to  ask  you  to  paint  a  picture  for 
them." 

"  Not  to  ask  you  a  favor,  sir,  mind  !  "  interrupted  Jan  ; 
we  'd  scoi*n  to  be  so  forward  ;  we  '11  subscribe  and  pay  for 
it,  in  course,  any  price  in  reason.  There  's  forty  and  more 
promised  already." 

"  You  must  tell  me,  first,  what  the  picture  is  to  be  about," 
said  Claude,  puzzled  and  amused. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  the  gentleman,  captain  ?  " 

"  Because  I  think  it  is  no  use  ;  and  I  told  them  all  so 
from  the  first.     The  truth  is,  sir,  they  want  a  picture  of  my 

of  our  schoolmistress,  sir,  to  hang  up  in  the  school  or 

somewhere  — " 

"That's  it,  dra'ed  out  all  natural,  in  paints,  and  her 
bonnet,  and  her  shawl,  and  all,  just  like  life  ;  we  was  a 
going  to  ax  you  to  do  one  of  they  garrytypes  ;  but  she 
would  have'n  noo  price  ;  besides  't  an't  cheerful  looking  they 
sort,  with  your  leave  ;  too  much  blackamoor  wise,  you  see, 
and  over  thick  about  the  nozzes,  most  times,  to  my  liking ; 
so  we  '11  pay  you  and  welcome,  all  you  ask." 

"  Too  much  blackamoor  wise,  indeed ! "  said  Claude, 
amused.     "  And  how  much  do  you  think  I  should  ask  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  We  '11  settle  that  presently.  Come  down  into  the  cabin 
with  me." 

"  Why,  sir,  we  could  n't  make  so  bold.     His  lordship — " 

"  0,  his  lordship's  on  shore,  and  I  am  skipper  for  the 
time  ;  and  if  not,  he  'd  be  delighted  to  see  two  good  seamen 
here.     So  come  along." 

And  down  they  went. 

"Bowie,  bring  these  gentlemen  some  sherry!"  cried 
Claude,  turning  over  his  portfolio.  "  Now,  then,  my  worthy 
friends,  is  that  the  sort  of  thing  you  want  ?  " 

And  he  spread  on  the  table  a  water-color  sketch  of  Grace. 

The  two  worthies  gazed  in  silent  delight,  and  then  looked 
at  each  other,  and  then  at  Claude,  and  then  at  the  picture. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Willis  ;  "  I  could  n't  have  believed  it  I 
You  've  got  the  very  smile  of  her,  and  the  sadness  of  her 
too,  as  if  you  'd  known  her  a  hundred  year!  " 

"  'T  is  beautiful !  "  sighed  Jan,  half  to  himself.  Poor 
fellow,  he  had  cherished,  perhaps,  hopes  of  winning  Grace 
after  all. 

"  Well,  will  that  suit  you  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,  make  so  bold;  —  but  what  we  thought  od 


300  THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH. 

was  to  have  her  drawn  from  head  to  foot,  and  a  child  stand- 
ing by  her  like,  holding  to  her  haiid,.  for  a  token  as  she  was 
Bchoulinistress  ;  and  the  pier  behind,  may  be,  to  signify  aa 
the  was  our  maid,  and  belonged  to  Aberalva." 

"A  capital  thought!  Upon  my  word,  you 're  men  of 
taste  here  in  the  \Vest ;  but  what  do  you  think  I  should 
charge  for  such  a  picture  as  that  i* " 

"  Name  your  price,  sir,"  said  Jan,  who  was  in  high  good 
humor  at  Claude's  approbation, 

"Two  hundred  guineas!  " 

Jan  gave  a  long  whistle. 

"  1  told  you  so.  Captain  Beer,"  said  Willis,  "  or  ever  we 
got  into  the  boat." 

"  Now,"  said  Claude,  laughing,  "  I  've  two  prices — one's 
two  hundred,  and  the  other  is  just  nothing  ;  and  if  you  won't 
agree  to  the  one,  you  must  take  the  other." 

"  But  we  wants  to  pay,  we  'd  take  it  an  honor  to  pay,  if 
we  could  afford  it." 

"  Then  wait  till  next  Christmas." 

"Christmas?" 

"  My  good  friend,  pictures  are  not  painted  in  a  day. 
Next  Christmas,  if  1  live,  1  '11  send  you  what  you  shall  not 
be  ashamed  of,  or  she  either,  and  do  you  club  your  money 
and  put  it  into  a  handsome  gold  frame." 

"But,  sir,"  said  Willis,  "this  will  give  you  a  sight  of 
trouble,  and  all  for  our  fancy." 

"  I  like  it,  and  1  like  you  !  You  're  fine  fellows,  who 
know  a  noble  creature  when  God  sends  her  to  you  ;  and  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  ask  a  farthing  of  your  money.  There, 
no  more  words  I  " 

"  Well,  you  are  a  gentleman,  sir!  "  said  Gentleman  Jan. 

"  And  so  are  you,"  said  Claude.  "  Now,  I  '11  show  you 
some  more  sketches." 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  sir,"  asked  Willis,  "  how  you 
got  at  tliat  likeness.  She  would  not  hear  of  the  thing,  and 
that 's  wh}^  I  had  no  liking  to  come  troubling  you  about 
nothing." 

Claude  told  them,  and  Jan  laughed  heartily,  while  Willis 
said,  — 

"Do  you  know,  sir,  that's  a  relief  to  my  mind.  There 
is  no  sin  in  being  drawn,  of  course  ;  but  1  did  n't  like  to 
think  my  maid  had  changed  her  mind,  when  once  she  'd 
TQade  it  up." 

So  the  deputation  retired  in  high  glee,  after  Willis  had 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH.  301 

enlreated  Claude  and  Beer  to  keep  the  thing  a  secret  from 
Grace. 

It  befell  that  Claude,  knowing  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  tell  Frank  Ileadley,  told  him  the  whole  story,  as  a  proof 
of  the  chivalry  of  his  parishioners,  in  which  he  would  take 
delight. 

Fi'ank  smiled,  but  said  little  ;  his  opinion  of  Grace  was 
altex'ing  fast.  A  circumstance  which  occurred  a  few  days 
after  altered  it  still  more. 

Scoutbush  had  gone  forth,  as  he  threatened,  and  exploded 
in  every  direction,  with  such  effect  as  was  to  be  supposed. 
Everybody  promised  his  lordship  to  do  everytliing.  But, 
when  his  lordship's  back  was  turned,  everybody  did  just 
nothing.  They  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  make 
them  do  anything  ;  and  what  was  more,  in  some  of  the  very 
worst  cases,  the  evil  was  past  remedy  now,  and  better  left 
alone.  For  the  drought  went  on  pitiless.  A  copper  sun,  a 
sea  of  glass,  a  brown  easterly  blight,  day  after  day,  while 
Thurnall  looked  grimly  aloft,  and  mystified  the  sailors 
with  — ■ 

"  Fine  weather  for  the  Flying  Dutchman,  this  I  " 

"  Coffins  sail  fastest  in  a  calm." 

"  You  'd  best  all  out  to  the  quay-head,  and  whistle  for  a 
wind  ;  it  would  be  an  ill  one  that  would  blow  nobody  good 
just  now  I  " 

But  the  wind  came  not,  nor  the  rain  ;  and  the  cholera 
crept  nearer  and  nearer  ;  while  the  hearts  of  all  in  Aberalva 
were  hardened,  and  out  of  very  spite  against  the  agitators, 
they  did  less  than  they  would  have  done  otherwise.  Even 
the  inhabitants  of  the  half-a-dozen  cottages,  which  Scout- 
bush,  finding  that  they  were  in  his  own  hands,  whitewashed 
by  main  force,  filled  the  town  with  lamentations  over  his 
lordship's  tyranny.  True,  their  pig-sties  were  either 
under  their  front  windows,  or  within  two  feet  of  the  wall ; 
but  to  pull  down  a  poor  man's  pig-sty  !  —  they  might  ever 
so  well  be  Rooshian  slave  !  —  and  all  the  town  was  on  their 
side  ;  for  pigs  wex'e  the  normal  inhabitants  of  Aberalva  back- 
yards. 

Tardrew's  wrath,  of  course,  knew  no  bounds  ;  and  meet- 
ing Thurnall  standing  at  WiUis's  door,  with  Frank  and 
Mellot,  he  fell  upon  him  open-mouthed. 

"  Well,  sir!  I  've  a  crow  to  pick  with  you." 

"  Pick  away  !  "  quoth  Tom. 

"  What  business  have  you  meddling  between  his  lordship 
and  me  ? " 

26 


302  THE   CRUISE    OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

"That  is  my  concern,"  quoth  Tom,  who  evidently  was 
not  disinclined  to  quarrel.  "  I  am  not  here  to  give  an 
account  to  you  of  what  I  choose  to  do." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  sir;  ever  since  you  've  been  in  this 
parish  you  've  been  meddling,  you  and  Mr.  Ileadley  too, — 
1  '11  say  it  to  your  faces,  —  1  '11  speak  the  truth  to  any  man, 
gentle  or  simple  ;  and  that  an't  enough  for  you,  but  you 
must  come  over  that  poor,  half-crazed  girl,  to  set  her 
plagiung  honest  people,  with  telling  'em  they  '11  all  be  lead 
in  a  month,  till  nobody  can  eat  their  suppers  in  peace  ;  and 
that  again  an't  enough  for  you,  but  you  must  go  to  my  lord 
with  your  —  " 

"  liold  hard  !  "  quoth  Tom.  "  Don't  start  two  hares  at 
once.     Let 's  hear  that  about  Miss  Ilarvey  again  !  " 

"  Miss  Harvey  ?     Why,  you  should  know  better  than  I." 

"  Let 's  hear  what  you  know." 

"  Why,  ever  since  that  night  Trebooze  caught  you  and 
her  together  —  " 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Tom,  "  that 's  a  lie  !  " 

"  Everybody  says  so." 

"  Then  everybody  lies,  that 's  all ;  and  you  may  say  I 
said  so,  and  take  care  you  don't  say  it  again  yourself.  But 
what  ever  since  that  night?  " 

"  Why,  I  suppose  you  come  over  the  poor  thing  some 
how,  as  you  seem  minded  to  do  over  every  one  as  you  can. 
But  she  's  been  running  up  and  down  tlie  town  ever  since, 
preaching  to  'em  about  windilation,  and  drains,  and  smells, 
and  cholera,  and  its  being  a  judgment  of  the  Lord  against 
dirt,  till  she  's  frightened  all  the  women,  so  that  many  's  the 
man  as  has  had  to  forbid  her  his  house.  But  you  know 
that  as  well  as  L" 

"  I  never  heard  a  word  of  it  before  :  but,  now  I  have,  I  '11 
give  you  my  opinion  on  it :  —  that  she  is  a  noble,  sensible 
girl,  and  that  you  are  all  a  set  of  fools  who  are  not  worthy 
of  her ;  and  that  the  greatest  fool  of  the  whole  is  you,  Mr, 
Tardrew.  And,  when  the  cholera  comes,  it  will  serve  you 
exactly  right  if  you  are  the  first  man  carried  ofl'  by  it.  Now, 
sir,  you  have  given  me  your  mind,  and  I  have  given  you 
mine,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything  more  of  you. 
Good-morning  !  " 

"  You  hold  your  head  mighty  high,  to  be  sure,  since 
you  've  had  the  run  of  his  lordsliip's  yacht!  " 

"  If  you  are  impertinent,  sir,  you  will  repent  it.  I  shall 
take  care  to  inform  his  lordship  of  this  conversation." 

"My  dear  Thurnall,"  said   Ileadley,  as  Tardrew  with- 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH.        303 


drew,  muttering  curses,  "  the  old  fellow  is  certainly  right 
on  one  point." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  That  you  have  wonderfully  changed  your  tone.  Who 
was  to  eat  any  amount  of  dirt,  if  he  could  but  save  his 
influence  thereby  ? " 

"  I  have  altered  my  plans.  I  shan't  stay  here  long  ; 
I  shall  just  see  this  cholera  over,  and  then  vanish." 

"No?" 

"  Yes.  I  cannot  sit  here  quietly,  listening  to  the  war- 
news.  It  makes  me  mad  to  be  up  and  doing.  I  must  east- 
ward-ho,  and  see  if  trumps  will  not  turn  up  for  me  at  last. 
Why,  I  know  the  whole  country,  half  a  dozen  of  the  lan- 
guages—  0,  if  I  could  get  some  secret  service-work  I  Go 
1  must.  At  worst,  I  can  turn  my  hand  to  doctoring  Bashi- 
bazouks." 

"My  dear  Tom,  when  will  j'^ou  settle  down  like  other 
men  ?  "  cries  Claude. 

"I  would  now,  if  there  was  an  opening  at  Witbury,  and, 
low  as  life  would  be,  I  'd  face  it  for  my  father's  sake.  But 
here  I  cannot  stay." 

Both  Claude  and  Headley  saw  that  Tom  had  reasons 
which  he  did  not  choose  to  reveal.  However,  Claude  was 
taken  into  his  confidence  that  very  afternoon. 

"  I  shall  make  a  fool  of  myself  with  that  schoolmistress. 
I  have  been  near  enough  to  it  a  dozen  times  already  ;  and 
this  magnificent  conduct  of  hers  about  the  cholera  has 
given  the  finishing  stroke  to  my  brains.  If  I  stay  on  here, 
I  shall  marry  her  ;  I  know  I  shall !  and  I  won't !  —  I  'd  go 
to-morrow,  if  it  were  not  that  I  'm  bound,  for  my  own  credit, 
to  see  the  cholera  safe  into  the  town,  and  out  again." 

Tom  did  not  hint  a  word  of  the  lost  money,  or  of  the 
month's  delay  which  Grace  had  asked  of  him.  The  month 
was  drawing  fast  to  a  close  now,  however  ;  but  no  sign  of 
the  belt.  Still,  Tom  had  honor  enough  in  him  to  be  silent 
on  the  point,  even  to  Claude. 

"  By  the  by,  have  j'ou  heard  from  the  wanderers  this 
week  ?  " 

"  I  heard  from  Sabina  this  morning.  Marie  is  very  poor- 
ly, I  fear.  They  have  been  at  Kissingen,  bathing  ;  and  are 
going  to  Bertrich  :  somebody  has  recommended  the  baths 
there." 

"  Bertrich  !     ^^^lere  's  Bertnch  ?  " 

"The  most  delicious  little  nest  of  a  place,  halfway  up 
the  Moselle,  among  the  volcano  craters." 


304  THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   WATERWITCH. 

**  Don't  know  it.     Have  they  found  that  Yankee  ?  " 

'*No." 

"  Why,  I  thon,i^-ht  Sabiiia  had  a  wliole  detective  force  of 
pets  and  prot(''g-es,  from  Boulogne  to  Rome." 

"  Well,  she  has  at  least  heard  of  him  at  Baden  ;  and 
then  again  at  Stuttgard  ;   but  he  has  escaped  tlieni  as  yet." 

"  And  poor  Marie  is  breaking  her  heart  all  the  while  1 
1  '11  tell  you  what,  Claude,  it  will  be  well  for  him  if  he  escapes 
me  as  well  as  them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  shan't  go  to  the  East  without  shaking  hands 
once  more  with  Marie  and  Sabina  ;  and  if  in  so  doing  I 
pass  that  fellow,  it 's  a  pity  if  I  don't  have  a  snap  shot  at 
him." 

"  Tom !  Tom  I  I  had  hoped  your  duelling  days  were 
over." 

"  They  will  be  over  when  one  can  get  the  law  to  punish 
Buch  puppies  •  but  not  till  then.  Hang  the  fellow  I  What 
business  had  he  with  her  at  all,  if  he  didn't  intend  to 
marry  her  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  as  I  told  you  before,  it  is  she  who  will  not 
marry  him." 

"And  yet  she's  breaking  her  heart  for  him.  I  can  see 
it  all  plain  enough,  Claude.  She  has  found  him  out  only 
too  late.  I  know  him  —  luxurious,  selfish,  blaze;  would 
give  a  thousand  dollars  to-morrow,  I  believe,  like  the  old 
Roman,  for  a  new  pleasure  ;  — and  then  amuses  himself  with 
her  till  he  breaks  her  heart!  Of  course,  she  won't  marry 
him  ;  because  she  knows  that  if  he  found  out  her  quadroon 
blood  —  ah,  that 's  it !  I  '11  lay  my  life  he  has  found  it  out 
already,  and  that  is  why  he  has  bolted !  " 

Claude  had  no  answer  to  give.  That  talk  at  the  exhibi- 
tion made  it  only  too  probable. 

"  You  think  so,  yourself,  I  see  !  Very  well.  You  know 
that,  whatever  I  have  been  to  others,  that  girl  has  nothing 
against  me." 

"  Nothing  against  you  ?  Why,  she  owes  you  honor,  life, 
everything.  " 

"  Never  mind  that.  Only,  when  I  take  a  fancy  to  begin, 
1  'II  carry  it  through.  1  took  to  that  girl,  for  poor  W'yse's 
Bake  ;  and  I  '11  behave  by  her  to  the  last  as  he  would  wish  ; 
and  he  who  insults  her,  insults  me.  I  won't  go  out  of  my 
way  to  find  Stangrave  ;  but,  if  I  do,  I  '11  have  it  out!  " 

"  Then  you  will  certainly  fight.  My  dearest  Tom,  do 
look  into  your  own  heart,  and  see  whether  you  have  not  a 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    WATERWITCH.  305 

grain  or  two  of  spite  against  him  left,     I  assure  you  you 
judge  him  too  harshly." 

"  Hum  —  that  must  take  its  chance.  At  least,  if  we  fight, 
we  fight  fairly  and  equally.  He  is  a  brave  man  —  I  will  do 
him  that  justice  —  and  a  cool  one;  and  used  to  be  a  sweet 
shot.  So  he  has  just  as  good  a  chance  of  shooting  me,  if  I 
am  in  the  wrong,  as  I  have  of  shooting  him,  if  he  is." 

"  But  your  father." 

"  I  know.  That  is  very  disagreeable  ;  and  all  the  more 
60  because  I  am  going  to  insure  my  life  —  a  pretty  premium 
they  will  make  me  pay  !  — and  if  I  'm  killed  in  a  duel  it  will 
be  forfeited.  However,  the  only  answer  to  that  is,  tliat 
either  I  shan't  fight,  or,  if  I  do,  I  shan't  be  killed.  You 
know  I  don't  believe  in  being  killed,  Claude." 

"  Tom  !  Tom  !     The  same  as  ever!  "  said  Claude,  sadly. 

"  Well,  old  man,  and  what  else  would  you  have  me  ? 
Nobody  ever  could  alter  me,  you  know  ;  and  why  should  I 
alter  myself?  Here  I  am,  after  all,  alive  and  jolly  ;  and 
there  is  old  daddy,  as  comfortable  as  he  ever  can  be  on 
earth  ;  and  so  it  will  be  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  There  ! 
let  'b  talk  of  something  else." 
26* 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

COME   AT   LAST. 

Now,  as  if  in  all  things  Tom  Thurnall  and  John  Brig-gs 
U'ere  fated  to  take  opposite  sides,  Campbell  lost  ground 
with  Elsley  as  fast  as  he  gained  it  with  Thurnall.  Elsley 
had  never  forgiven  himself  for  his  passion  that  first  morn- 
ing. He  had  shown  Campbell  his  weak  side,  and  feared 
and  disliked  him  accordingly.  Besides,  what  might  not 
Thurnall  have  told  Campbell  about  him  ?  And  what  use 
might  not  the  major  make  of  his  secret  'i  Besides,  Elsley's 
dread  and  suspicion  increased  rapidly  when  he  discovered 
that  Campbell  was  one  of  those  men  who  live  on  terms  of 
peculiar  intimacy  with  many  women  ;  whether  for  his  own 
good  or  not,  still  for  the  good  of  the  women  concerned. 
For  only  by  honest  puritj'',  and  moral  courage  superior  to 
that  of  the  many,  is  that  dangerous  post  earned  ;  and 
women  will  listen  to  the  man  who  will  tell  them  the  truth, 
however  sternly  ;  and  will  bow,  as  before  a  guardian  angel, 
to  the  strong  insight  of  him  whom  they  have  once  learned 
to  trust.  But  it  is  a  dangerous  office,  after  all,  for  layman 
as  well  as  for  priest,  that  of  father-confessor.  The  experi- 
ence of  centuries  has  shown  that  they  must  needs  exist, 
wherever  fathers  neglect  their  daughters,  husbands  their 
wives  ;  wherever  the  average  of  the  women  cannot  respect 
the  average  of  the  men.  But  the  experience  of  centuries 
si  ould  likewise  have  taught  men  that  the  said  fatlier-con- 
fessors  are  no  objects  of  envy  ;  that  their  temptations  to 
become  spiritual  coxcombs  (the  wiM'st  species  of  all  cox- 
combs), if  not  intriguers,  bullies,  and  worse,  are  so  extreme, 
that  the  soul  which  is  proof  against  them  must  be  either  very 
gieat,  or  very  small  indeed.  Whether  Campbell  was  alto- 
gether proof,  will  be  seen  hen-after.  But  one  day  Elsley 
found  out  that  such  was  Campbell's  influence,  and  did  not 
love  him  the  more  for  the  discovery. 

They  were  walking  round  the  garden  after  dinner ;  Scout- 

(306) 


COME    AT    LAST.  307 

bush  was  licking  his  foolish  lips  over  some  coimvion-place 
tale  cf  scandal. 

"  I  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  she  's  booked  ;  and  Mel- 
lot  knows  it  as  well  as  I.  He  saw  her  that  night  at 
Lady  A.'s." 

"  We  saw  the  third  act  of  the  comi-tragedy.  The 
fourth  is  playing  out  now.  We  shall  see  the  fifth  before 
the  winter." 

"  Non  sine  sanguine  !  "  said  the  major. 

"  Serve  the  wretched  stick  right,  at  least,"  said  Scout- 
bush.  "  What  right  had  he  to  marry  such  a  pretty 
woman  ?  " 

"  What  right  had  tliey  to  marry  her  up  to  him  ?  "  said 
Claude.  "  I  don't  blame  poor  January.  1  suppose  none  of 
us,  gentlemen,  would  have  refused  such  a  pretty  toy,  if  we 
could  have  afforded  it  as  he  could." 

"  Whom  do  you  blame,  then  ?  "  asked  Elsley, 

"  Fathers  and  mothers  who  prate  hypocritically  about 
keeping  their  daughters'  minds  pure  ;  and  then  abuse 
a  girl's  ignorance,  in  order  to  sell  her  to  ruin.  Let 
them  keep  her  mind  pure,  in  Heaven's  name  :  but  let 
them  consider  themselves  all  the  more  bound  in  honor 
to  use  on  her  behalf  the  experience  in  which  she  must  not 
share." 

"  Well,"  drawled  Scoutbush,  "  I  don't  complain  of  her 
bolting  ;  she  's  a  very  sweet  creature,  and  always  was  ;  but, 
as  Longreach  says,  — and  a  very  witty  fellow  he  is,  though 
you  laugh  at  him,  —  '  If  she  'd  kept  to  us,  I  shouldn't  have 
minded  ;  but,  as  Guardsmen,  we  must  throw  her  over.  It's 
an  insult  to  the  whole  Guards,  my  dear  fellow,  after  refus- 
ing two  of  us,  to  marry  an  attorney,  and  after  all  to  bolt 
with  a  plunger.'  " 

What  bolting  with  a  plunger  might  signify,  Elsley  knew 
not;  but,  ere  he  could  ask,  the  major  rejoined,  in  an  ab- 
stracted voice, 

"  God  help  us  all  !  And  this  is  the  girl  I  recollect,  two 
years  ago,  singing  there  in  Cavendish-square,  as  innocent  as 
a  nestling-thrush  !  " 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  Mellot ;  "  sold  at  first  —  perhaps  sold 
again  now.  The  plunger  has  bills  out,  and  she  has  ready 
money.     I  know  her  settlements." 

"  She  shan't  do  it,"  said  the  major,  quietly  ;  "  I  '11  write 
to  her  to-night." 

Elsley  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  You  think,  then,  sir,  thai 
you  can,  by  simply  writing,  stop  this  intrigue  ?  " 


308  COME   AT   LAST. 

The  major  did  not  answer.     lie  was  deep  in  thought. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  did,"  said  Scoutbush  ;  "  two 
to  one  on  hi.s  baulking"  the  plunger  !  " 

"  She  is  at  Lord 's  now,  at  those  silly  private  theatri- 
cals.    Is  he  there  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Mellot ;  "he  tried  hard  for  an  invitation  — 
stooped  to  work  me  and  Sabina.  I  believe  she  told  him  that 
ahe  would  sooner  see  him  in  the  Morgue  than  help  him  ; 
and  he  is  gone  to  the  moors  now,  1  believe." 

"  There  is  time,  then  ;  I  will  write  to  her  to-night ;  "  and 
Campbell  took  up  his  hat  and  went  home  to  do  it. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Scoutbush,  taking  his  cigar  meditatively 
from  his  mouth,  "I  wonder  how  he  does  it!  It's  a  gift, 
I  always  say,  a  wonderful  gift !  Before  he  has  been  a 
week  in  a  house  he  '11  have  the  confidence  of  every 
woman  in  it,  —  and,  'gad,  he  does  it  by  saying  tlie  rudest 
things  !  —  and  the  confidence  of  all  the  youngsters  the 
week  after." 

"A  somewhat  dangerous  gift,"  said  Elsley,  dryly. 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  he  might  play  tricks  if  he  chose  ;  but  there  's 
the  wonder,  that  he  don't.  I  'd  answer  for  him  with  my  own 
sister.  I  do  every  day  of  my  life  —  for  I  believe  he  knows 
how  many  pins  she  puts  into  her  dress  —  and  yet  there  he  is. 
As  I  said  once  in  the  mess-room,  there  was  a  youngster 
there  who  took  on  himself  to  be  witty,  and  talked  about 
the  still  sow  supping  the  milk  —  the  snob  I  You  recollect 
him,  Mellot  ?  The  attorney's  son  from  Brompton,  who 
Bold  out ;  —  we  shaved  his  mustachios,  put  a  bear  in  his 
bed,  and  sent  him  home  to  his  ma  —  and  he  said  that 
Major  Campbell  might  be  very  pious,  and  all  that ;  but 
he  'd  warrant  —  they  were  the  fellow's  own  words  —  that 
he  took  his  lark  on  the  sly,  like  other  men  —  the  snob  !  So 
I  told  him  I  was  no  better  than  the  rest,  and  no  more  I  am  ; 
but,  if  any  man  dared  to  say  that  the  major  was  not  as  honest 
as  his  own  .sister,  I  was  his  man  at  fifteen  paces.  And  so  I 
am,  Claude  !  " 

All  which  did  not  increase  Elsley's  love  to  the  major,  con- 
scious as  he  was  that  Lucia's  confidence  was  a  thing  which 
he  had  not  wholly  ;  and  which  it  would  be  very  dangerous 
to  him  for  any  other  man  to  have  at  all. 

Into  the  drawing-room  they  went.  Frank  Iloadlcy  had 
been  asked  up  to  tea  ;  and  he  stood  at  the  piano,  listening  to 
Valencia's  singing. 

As  they  came  in,  the  maid  came  in  also.  "  Mr.  Thurnall 
wished  to  speak  to  Major  Campbell." 


COME   AT   LAST.  309 

Campbell  went  out,  and  returned  in  two  minutes  some- 
what hurriedly. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall  wishes  Lord  Scoutbush  to  be  informed 
at  once,  and  I  think  it  is  better  that  you  should  all 
know  it  —  that  —  it  is  a  painful  surprise  ;  but  there  is  a 
man  ill  in  the  street,  whose  symptoms  he  does  not  like, 
he  says." 

"  Cholera  ?  "  said  Elsley. 

"  Call  him  in,"  said  Scoutbush. 

"  He  had  rather  not  come  in,  he  says." 

"  What !  is  it  infectious  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  if  it  be  cholera,  but  —  " 

"He  don't  wish  to  frighten  people,  —  quite  right;"  — 
with  a  half  glance  at  Elsley;  —  "but  is  it  cholera,  hon- 
estly?" 

"  I  fear  so." 

"  0,  my  children  !  "  said  poor  Mrs.  Vavasour. 

"  Will  five  pounds  help  the  poor  fellow  ? "  said  Scout- 
bush. 

"  How  far  off  is  it  ?  "  asked  Elsley. 

"  Unpleasantly  near.  I  was  going  to  advise  you  to  move 
at  once." 

"  You  hear  what  they  are  saying  ?  "  asked  Valencia  of 
Frank. 

"Yes,  I  hear  it,"  said  Frank,  in  a  quiet,  meaning  tone. 
Valencia  thought  that  he  was  half-pleased  with  the  news. 
Then  she  thought  him  afraid,  for  he  did  not  stir, 

"  You  will  go  instantly,  of  course  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  shall.  Good-by  !  Do  not  be  afraid.  It  is 
not  infectious." 

"  Afraid  !  and  a  soldier's  sister  ?  "  said  Valencia,  with  a 
toss  of  her  beautiful  head,  by  way  of  giving  force  to  her 
somewhat  weak  logic. 

Frank  left  the  room  instantly,  and  met  Thurnall  in  the 
passage. 

"  Well,  Headley,  it 's  here  before  we  sent  for  it,  as  bad 
luck  usually  is." 

"  I  know.  Let  me  go  !  "Where  is  it  ?  Whose  house  ?  " 
asked  Frank,  in  an  excited  tone. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Thurnall,  looking  intently  at  him,  "  that 
is  just  what  I  shall  not  tell  you." 

"  Not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  No,  you  are  too  pale,  Headley.  Go  back  and  get 
two  or  three  glasses  of  wine,  and  then  we  will  talk  of  it  " 


310  COME   AT   LAST. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  must  go  instantly  !  It  is  my 
duty —  my  parisliioner  !  " 

"  Look  here,  Iloadley  !  Are  you  and  I  to  work  together 
in  tills  business,  or  are  we  not '(  " 

"  Why  not,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  " 

"  Then  I  want  you,  not  for  cure,  but  for  prevention.  You 
can  do  tlicm  no  good  when  they  have  once  got  it.  You  may 
prevent  dozens  irom  having  it  in  the  next  four-and-twenty 
hours,  if  you  will  be  guided  by  me." 

"  But  my  business  is  with  their  souls,  Thurnall." 

"  Exactly  ;  to  give  Ihem  the  consolations  of  religion,  as 
they  call  it.  You  will  give  them  to  the  people  who  have  not 
taken  it.  You  maj'  bring  them  safe  through  it  by  simply 
keeping  up  their  spirits  ;  while,  if  you  waste  your  time  on 
poor  dying  wretches  —  " 

"  Thurnall,  you  must  not  talk  so  !  I  will  do  all  you  ask  ; 
but  my  place  is  at  the  death-bed,  as  well  as  elsewhere. 
These  perishing  souls  are  in  my  care." 

"  And  how  do  you  know,  pray,  that  they  are  perishing  ?  " 
answered  Tom,  with  something  very  like  a  sneer.  "  And 
if  they  were,  do  you  honestly  believe  that  any  talk  of 
yours  can  change  in  five  minutes  a  character  which  has  been 
forming  for  years,  or  prevent  a  man's  going  where  he 
ought  to  go,  —  which,  I  suppose,  is  the  place  to  which  he 
deserves  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Frank,  firmly, 

"  Well  ;  it  is  a  charitable  and  hopeful  creed.  My  great 
dread  was,  lest  you  should  kill  the  poor  wretches  before 
their  time,  by  adding  to  the  fear  of  cholera  the  fear  of 
hell.  I  caught  the  Methodist  parson  at  that  work  an  hour 
ago,  took  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  shot  him  out  into  the 
street.  But,  my  dear  Ileadley," — and  Tom  lowered  his 
voice  to  a  whisper,  —  "  wherever  poor  Tom  Beer  deserved 
to  go  to,  he  is  gone  to  it  already.  He  has  been  dead  this 
twenty  minutes." 

"  Tom  Beer  dead  ?  One  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  town  1 
And  I  never  sent  for  ?  " 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud,  or  they  will  hear  you.  I  had  no 
time  to  send  for  you  ;  and,  if  I  had,  I  should  not  have  sent, 
for  he  was  past  attending  to  you  from  the  first.  He  brought 
it  with  him,  I  suppose,  from  C  *  *  *.  Had  had  warnings  for 
a  week,  and  neglected  them.  Now  listen  to  me  ;  that  man 
was  but  two  hours  ill  ;  as  sharp  a  case  as  I  ever  saw,  even 
in  the  West  Indies.  You  must  summon  up  all  your  good 
sense,  and  plaj"^  the  man   for  a  fortnight  ;  for  it 's  coming 


COME   AT   LAST.  311 

on  the  poor  souls  like  Hell  1 "  said  Tom,  between  his  teeth, 
and  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  ground.  Frank  had  never 
seen  him. show  so  much  feeling;  he  fancied  he  could  see 
tears  glistening  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  will,  so  help  me  God  !  "  said  Frank. 

Tom  held  out  his  hand,  and  grasped  Frank's. 

"  I  know  you  will.  You  're  all  right  at  heart.  Only 
mind  three  things  ;  don't  frighten  them,  don't  tire  yourself, 
don't  go  about  on  an  empty  stomach,  and  then  we  can  face 
the  worst  like  men.  And  now  go  in,  and  say  nothing  to 
these  people.  If  they  take  a  panic,  we  shall  have  some  of 
them  down  to-night  as  sure  as  fate.  Go  in,  keep  quiet,  per- 
suade them  to  bolt  anywhere  on  earth  by  daylight  to-mor- 
row. Then  go  home,  eat  a  good  supper,  and  come  acrcss 
to  me  ;  and,  if  I  'm  out,  I  '11  leave  word  where." 

Frank  went  back  again.  He  found  Campbell,  who  had 
had  his  cue  from  Tom,  urging  immediate  removal  as  strongly 
as  he  could,  without  declaring  the  extent  of  the  danger. 
Valencia  was  for  sending  instantly  for  a  fly  to  the  nearest 
town,  and  going  to  stay  at  a  watering-place  some  forty 
miles  off.  Elsley  was  willing  enough  at  heart,  but  hesi- 
tated ;  he  "knew  not,  at  the  moment,  poor  fellow,  where  to 
find  the  money.  His  wife  knew  that  she  could  borrow  of 
Valencia  ;  but  she,  too,  was  against  the  place.  The  cholera 
would  be  in  the  air  for  miles  round.  The  journey  in  the 
hot  sun  would  make  the  children  sick  and  ill ;  and  water- 
ing-place lodgings  were  such  horrid  holes,  never  ventilated, 
and  full  of  smells  —  people  caught  fevers  at  them  so  often. 
Valencia  was  inclined  to  treat  this  as  "  mother's  nonsense  ; " 
but  Major  Campbell  said,  gravely,  that  Mrs.  Vavasour  was 
perfectly  right  as  to  the  fact,  and  her  arguments  full  of 
sound  reason  ;  whereon  Valencia  said  that  "of  course,  if 
Lucia  thought  it,  Major  Campbell  would  pi-ove  it ;  and  there 
was  no  arguing  with  such  Solons  as  he  —  " 

Which  Elsley  heard,  and  ground  his  teeth.  Whereon 
little  Scoutbush  cried,  joyfully, 

"I  have  it ;  why  not  go  by  sea  ?  Take  the  yacht,  and 
go  !  Where  ?  Of  course  1  have  it  again.  'Pon  my  word, 
I  'm  growing  clever,  Valencia,  in  spite  of  all  your  prophecies. 
Go  up  the  Welsh  coast.  Nothing  so  healthy  and  airy  as  a 
sea-voyage  ;  sea  as  smooth  as  a  mill-pond,  too,  and  likely 
to  be.  And  then  land,  if  you  like,  at  Port  Madoc,  as  I 
meant  to  do  ;  and  there  are  my  rooms  at  Beddgelert  lying 
empty.  Engaged  them  a  week  ago,  thinking  I  should  be 
there  by  now  ;  so  you  may  as  well  keep  them  aired  for  me. 


312  COME    AT    LAST. 

Come,  Valencia,  pack  up  your  millinery  !  Lucia,  get  the 
cradles  ready,  and  we  '11  have  them  all  on  board  by  twelve. 
Capital  plan.  Vavasour,  is  n't  it  ?  and,  by  Jove,  what  stun- 
ning- poetry  you  will  write  there  under  Snowdon  I  " 

"  But  will  3-()U  not  want  your  rooms  yourself,  Lord  Scout- 
bush  ?  "  said  Elsley. 

"My  dear  fellow,  never  mind  me.  I  shall  g'o  across  the 
country,  I  think,  see  an  old  fiicnd,  and  get  some  otter- 
hunting.  Don't  think  of  me,  till  you  're  there,  and  then 
send  the  yacht  back  for  me.  She  must  be  doing  something, 
you  know  ;  and  the  men  are  onl}'  getting  drunk  every  day 
here.  Come,  no  arguing  about  it,  or  1  shall  turn  you  all 
out  of  doors  into  the  lane,  eh  ? " 

And  the  little  fellow  laughed  so  good-naturedly  that 
Elsley  could  not  help  liking  him  ;  and,  feeling  that  he  would 
be  both  a  fool  and  cruel  to  his  family  if  he  refused  so  good 
an  oflier,  he  gave  in  to  the  scheme,  and  went  out  to  arrange 
matters,  while  Scoutltush  went  out  into  the  hall  with  Camp- 
bell, and  scrambled  into  his  pea-jacket,  to  go  off  to  the 
yacht  that  moment. 

"You'll  see  to  them,  there 's  a  good  fellow,"  as  they 
lighted  their  cigars  at  the  door.  "  That  Vavasour  is  greener 
than  grass,  you  know,  tant  pis  for  my  poor  sister." 

"  I  am  not  going." 

"  Not  going  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  so  my  rooms  will  be  at  their  service, 
and  you  had  much  better  escort  them  yourself  It  will  be 
much  less  disagreeable  for  Vavasour,  who  knows  nothing 
of  commanding  sailors,"  —  or  himself,  thought  the  major, — 
"  than  finding  himself  master  of  your  yacht  in  your  absence, 
and  you  will  get  your  fishing,  as  you  intended." 

"  But  why  are  you  going  to  stay  ?  " 

"  0,  I  have  not  half  done  with  the  sea-beasts  here.  I 
found  two  new  ones  yesterday." 

"Quaint  old  beetle-hunter  you  are,  for  a  man  who  has 
fought  in  half  a  dozen  battles  I  "  And  Scoutbush  walked 
on  silently  for  five  minutes. 

Suddenly  he  broke  out  — 

"  1  cannot !  By  George,  I  cannot ;  and,  what 's  more,  I 
won't !  " 

"  What  ? " 

"  Run  away.  It  will  look  so  —  so  cowardly,  and  there  'a 
the  truth  of  it,  before  those  fine  fellows  down  there  ;  and 
just  as  I  am  come  among  them,  too  I  The  commander-in- 
chief  to  turn  tail  at  the  first  shot  I     Though  I  can't  be  of 


COME   AT   LAST. 


313 


any  use,  I  know,  and  I  should  have  liked  a  fortnight's  fish« 
mg  so,"  said  he,  in  a  dolorous  voice,  "before  going  to  be 
eaten  up  with  fleas  at  Varna  ;  for  this  Crimean  expedition  is 
all  moonshine." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Campbell.  "  We  shall 
go  ;  and  some  of  us  who  go  will  never  come  back,  Freddy. 
1  know  those  Russians  better  than  many,  and  1  have  been 
talking  them  over  lately  with  Thurnall,  who  has  been  in 


their  service." 


"  Has  he  been  at  Sevastopol  ?  " 

"No.  Almost  the  only  place  on  earth  where  he  has  not 
been  ;  but,  from  all  he  says,  and  from  all  1  know,  we  are 
undervaluing  our  foes,  as  usual,  and  shall  smart  for  it." 

"  We  '11  itck  them,  never  fear  !  " 

"Yes  ;  but  not  at  the  first  round.  Scoutbush,  your  life 
has  been  child's  play  as  yet.  You  are  going  now  to  see 
life  in  earnest,  the  sort  of  life  which  average  people  have 
been  living,  in  every  age  and  country,  since  Adam's  fall  ;  a 
life  of  sorrow  and  danger,  tears  and  blood,  mistake,  confu- 
sion, and  perplexity  ;  and  you  will  find  it  a  very  new  sensa- 
tion ;  and,  at  first,  a  very  ugly  one.  All  the  more  reason 
for  doing  what  good  deeds  you  can  before  you  go  ;  for  you 
may  have  no  time  left  to  do  any  on  the  other  side  of  the 


sea." 


Scoutbush  was  silent  a  while. 

"  Well ;  I  'm  afraid  of  nothing,  I  hope,  — only  I  wish  one 
could  meet  this  cholera  face  to  fiice,  as  one  will  those  Rus- 
sians, with  a  good  sword  in  one's  hand,  and  a  good  horse 
between  one's  knees  ;  and  have  a  chance  of  giving  him 
what  he  brings,  instead  of  being  picked  off  by  the  cowardly 
Rockite,  no  one  knows  how,  and  not  even  from  behind  a 
turf  dyke,  but  out  of  the  very  clouds." 

"So  we  all  say,  in  every  battle,  Scoutbush.  Who  ever 
sees  the  man  who  sent  the  bullet  through  him  ?  And  yet 
we  fight  on.  Do  you  not  think  the  greatest  terror,  the  only 
real  terror,  in  any  battle,  is  the  chance  shots  which  come 
from  no  one  knows  where,  and  hit  no  man  can  guess  whom  ? 
If  you  go  to  the  Crimea,  as  you  will,  you  will  feel  what  I 
felt  at  the  Cape,  and  Cabul,  and  the  Punjab,  twenty  times, 
—  the  fear  of  dying  like  a  dog,  one  knew  not  how." 

"  And  yet  I  '11  fight,  Campbell !  " 

"  Of  course  you  will,  and  take  your  chance.  Do  so 
now  !  " 

"  By  Jove,  Campbell  —  I  always  say  it  —  you  're  the  most 
sensible  man  I  ever  met ;  and,  by  Jove,  that  doctoi  comes 
27 


314  COME   AT   LAST. 

the  next.  My  sister  shall  have  the  yacht,  and  1  '11  go  up 
to  Peiuilva." 

"You  will  do  two  good  deeds  at  once,  then,"  said  the 
nnjor.  "  You  will  do  what  is  right,  and  you  will  give  heart 
to  many  a  poor  wretch  hero.  Believe  mc,  Scuutbush,  you 
will  never  repent  of  this." 

"By  Jove,  it  always  does  one  good  to  hear  you  talk  in 
that  way,  Campbell  !  One  feels  —  I  don't  know—  so  much 
of  a  man  when  one  is  with  you  ;  not  that  1  shan't  take 
uncommonly  good  care  of  myself,  old  fellow  ;  that  is  but 
fair;  but,  as  for  running  away,  as  I  said,  why  —  why  — 
why  1  can't,  and  so  I  won't  !  " 

"  By  the  by,"  said  the  major,  "there  is  one  thing  which 
I  have  forgotten,  and  which  they  will  never  recollect.  Is 
the  yacht  victualled  —  with  fresh  meat  and  green  stuff,  I 
mean  ?  " 

"Whew— w— 1" 

"I  will  go  back,  borrow  a  lantern,  and  forage  in  the 
garden,  like  an  old  campaigner.  I  have  cut  a  salad  with 
my  sword  before  now." 

"And  made  it  in  your  helmet,  with  Macassar  sauce  ?  " 
And  the  two  went  their  ways. 

Meanwhile,  before  they  liad  left  the  room,  a  notable  con- 
versation had  been  going  on  between  Valencia  and  Ileadley. 

Ileadley  had  reentered  the  room  so  much  paler  than  he 
went  out,  that  everybody  noticed  his  altered  looks.  Valen- 
cia chose  to  attribute  them  to  fear. 

"  So  I  Are  you  returned  from  the  sick  man  already,  Mr. 
Headley  ?  "  asked  she,  in  a  marked  tone. 

"  I  have  been  forbidden  by  the  doctor  to  go  near  him  at 
present,  Miss  St.  Just,"  said  he,  quietly,  but  in  a  sort  of 
under-voice,  which  hinted  that  he  wished  her  to  ask  no 
more  questions.  A  shade  passed  over  her  forehead,  and 
shf  began  chatting  rather  noisily  to  the  rest  of  the  party, 
till  Elsley,  her  brother,  and  Campbell,  went  out. 

Valencia  looked  up  at  him,  expecting  him  to  go  too. 
Mrs.  Vavasour  began  bustling  about  the  room,  collecting 
little  valuables,  and  looking  over  her  shoulders  at  the  now 
unwelcome  guest.  But  Frank  leaned  back  in  a  cosey  arm- 
chair, and  did  not  stir.  His  hands  were  clasped  on  his 
knees  ;  he  seemed  lost  in  thought,  very  pale,  but  there 
was  a  firm-set  look  about  his  lips  which  attracted  Valencia's 
attention.  Once  he  looked  up  in  Valencia's  face,  and  saw 
that  she  was  looking  at  him.  A  flush  came  over  his  cheeks 
for  a  moment,  and  then   he  seemed  as  impassive  as  ever. 


COME   AT   LAST.  315 

What  could  he  want  there  ?  How  very  gauche  and  rude  of 
him  ;  so  unlike  him,  too  !  And  she  said,  civilly  enough,  to 
him,  "  1  fear,  Mr.  Headley,  we  must  begin  packing  up  now." 

"  I  fear  you  must,  indeed,"  answered  he,  as  if  starting 
from  a  dream.  He  spoke  in  a  tone,  and  with  a  look,  which 
made  both  the  women  start ;  for  what  they  meant  it  was 
impossible  to  doubt. 

"  I  fear  you  must.  I  have  foreseen  it  a  long  time  ;  and 
BO,  I  fear  (and  he  rose  from  his  seat),  must  I,  unless  I  mean 
to  be  very  rude.  You  will  at  least  take  away  with  you  the 
knowledge,  that  you  have  given  to  one  person's  existence, 
at  least  for  a  few  weeks,  pleasure  more  intense  than  he 
thought  earth  could  hold." 

"  1  trust  that  pretty  compliment  was  meant  for  me,"  said 
Lucia,  half  playful,  half  reproving. 

"  1  am  sure  tliat  it  ought  not  to  have  been  meant  for  me," 
said  Valencia,  raore  downright  than  her  sister.  Both  could 
see  for  whom  it  was  meant,  by  the  look  of  passionate  worship 
which  Frank  fixed  on  a  face  which,  after  all,  seemed  made 
to  be  worshipped. 

"  I  trust  that  neither  of  you,"  answered  he,  quietl}^ 
"  think  me  impertinent  enough  to  pretend  to  make  love,  as 
it  is  called,  to  Miss  St.  Just.  I  know  who  she  is,  and  who 
I  am.  Gentleman  as  1  am,  and  the  descendant  of  gentle- 
men "  (and  Frank  looked  a  little  proud,  as  he  spoke,  and 
very  handsome),  "I  see  clearly  enough  the  great  gulf  fixed 
between  us  ;  and  I  like  it ;  for  it  enables  me  to  say  truth 
which  I  otherwise  dare  not  have  spoken  ;  as  a  brother  might 
say  to  a  sister,  or  a  subject  to  a  queen.  Either  analogy 
will  do  equally  well,  and  equally  ill." 

Prank,  without  the  least  intending  it,  had  taken  up  the 
very  strongest  miUtary  position.  Let  a  man  once  make  a 
woman  understand,  or  fancy,  that  he  knows  that  he  is  noth- 
ing to  her  ;  and  confess  boldly  that  there  is  a  great  gulf 
fixed  between  them,  which  he  has  no  mind  to  bridge  over ; 
and  then  there  is  little  that  he  may  not  say  or  do,  for  good 
or  for  evil. 

And  therefore  it  was  that  Lucia  answered  gently,  "  I  am 
sure  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Headley.  The  excitement  of  the 
night  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

"Do  I  look  excited,  my  dear  madam  ? "  he  answered 
quietly.  "  1  assure  you  that  I  am  as  calm  as  a  man  must 
be  who  believes  that  he  has  but  a  few  days  to  live,  and 
trusts,  too,  that  when  he  dies,  he  will  be  infinitely  happier 
than  he    'ver'has  been   on  earth,  and  lay  down  an  ofiSco 


316  COME   AT   LAST. 

which  he  has  never  discharged  otherwise  than  ill ;  whict 
has  been  to  him  a  constant  source  of  shame  and  sorrow." 

"  Do  not  speak  so  1  "  said  Valencia,  with  her  Irish  im- 
petuous generosity;  "you  are  unjust  to  yourself.  We 
have  watched  you,  felt  for  you,  honored  you,  even  when  we 
dillered  from  you."  What  more  she  would  have  said,  I 
know  not;  but  at  that  moment  Elsley's  peevish  voice  was 
heard  calling  over  the  stairs,  "  Lucia  !    Lucia  !  " 

"  0,  dear !  He  will  wake  the  children!"  cried  Lucia, 
'ooking  at  her  sister,  as  much  as  to  sav,  "  how  can  I  leave 
you?" 

"  Run,  run,  my  dear  creature  !  "  said  Valencia,  with  a 
self-confident  smile  ;  and  the  two  were  left  alone. 

The  moment  that  Mrs.  Vavasour  left  the  room,  there 
vanished  from  Frank's  face  that  intense  look  of  admiration 
which  had  made  even  Valencia  uneasy.  He  dropped  his 
eyes,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke  again.  lie  acknowl- 
edged the  change  in  their  position,  and  Valencia  saw  that 
he  did  so,  and  liked  him  the  better  for  it. 

"  I  shall  not  repeat.  Miss  St.  Just,  now  that  we  are  alone, 
what  I  said  just  now  of  the  pleasure  which  I  have  had  dur- 
ing the  last  month.  I  am  not  poetical,  or  given  to  string 
metaphors  together ;  and  I  could  only  go  over  the  same 
dull  words  once  more.  But  I  could  ask,  if  I  were  not  asking 
too  much,  leave  to  prolong  at  least  a  shadow  of  that  pleas- 
ure to  the  last  moment.  That  I  shall  die  shortly,  and  of 
this  cholera,  is  with  me  a  fixed  idea,  which  nothing  can 
remove.  No,  madam  —  it  is  useless  to  combat  it !  But 
had  I  anything,  by  which  to  the  last  moment  1  could  bring 
back  to  my  fancy  what  has  been  its  sunlight  for  so  long ; 
even  if  it  were  a  scrap  of  the  hem  of  your  garment,  ay,  a 
grain  of  dust  off  your  feet  —  God  forgive  me  !  He  and  his 
mercy  ought  to  be  enough  to  keep  me  up  ;  but  one's  weak- 
ness may  be  excused  for  clinging  to  such  slight  fioating 
straws  of  comfort." 

Valencia  paused,  startled,  and  yet  afiected.  How  she 
had  played  with  this  deep  pure  heart !  And  yet,  was  it 
pure  ?  Did  he  wish,  by  exciting  her  pity,  to  trick  her  into 
giving  him  what  he  might  choose  to  consider  a  token  of 
afiectiun  ? 

And  she  answered  coldly  enough  — 

"  I  should  be  sorry,  after  what  you  have  just  said,  to 
chance  hurting  you  by  refusing.  I  put  it  to  your  own  good 
feeling  —  have  you  not  asked  somewhat  too  much  ?  " 

"  Certainly  too  much,  madam,  in  any  common  case,"  said 


COME   AT   LAST.  311 

he,  quite  unmoved.  "  Certainly  too  much,  if  I  asked  you 
for  it,  as  I  do  not,  as  the  token  of  an  affection  which  I  know 
well  you  do  not,  cannot  feel.  But  —  take  my  words  aa 
they  stand  —  were  you  to — it  would  be  returned,  if  I  die, 
in  a  few  weeks  ;  and  returned  still  sooner  if  I  live.  And, 
madam,"  said  he,  lowering  his  voice,  "  I  vow  to  you,  before 
him  who  sees  us  both,  that,  as  ftir  as  I  am  concerned,  no 
human  being  shall  ever  know  of  the  fact." 

Frank  had  at  last  touched  the  wrong  chord. 

"  What,  Mr.  Headley  ?  Can  you  think  that  I  am  to  have 
secrets  in  common  with  you,  or  with  any  other  man  ?  No, 
sir !  If  I  granted  your  request,  I  should  avow  it  as  openly 
as  I  shall  refuse  it." 

And  she  turned  sharply  towards  the  door. 

Frank  Headley  was  naturally  a  shy  man  ;  but  extreme 
need  sometimes  bestows  on  shyness  a  miraculous  readiness 
—  (else  why,  in  the  long  run,  do  the  shy  men  win  the  best 
wives  ?  which  is  a  fact,  and  may  be  proved  by  statistics,  at 
least  as  well  as  anything  else  can)  —  so  he  quietly  stepped 
to  Valencia's  side,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  — 

"  You  cannot  avow  the  refusal  half  as  proudly  as  I  shall 
avow  the  request,  if  you  will  but  wait  till  your  sister's 
return.  Both  are  unnecessary,  I  think;  but  it  will  only  be 
an  honor  to  me  to  confess,  that,  poor  curate  as  I  am — " 

"  Hush  !  "  and  Valencia  walked  quietly  up  to  the  table, 
and  began  turning  over  the  leaves  Cf  a  book,  to  gain  time 
for  her  softened  heart  and  puzzled  brain. 

In  five  minutes  Frank  was  beside  her  again.  The  book 
was  Tennyson's  "Princess."  She  had  wandered  —  who 
can  tell  why  —  to  that  last  exquisite  scene,  which  all  know  ; 
and,  as  Valencia  read,  Frank  quietly  laid  a  finger  on  the 
book,  and  arrested  her  eyes  at  — 

"  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 

if  *  *  *  *  * 

Stoop  down,  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die  !  " 

Valencia  shut  the  book  up  hurriedly  and  angrily.  A 
moment  after  she  had  made  up  her  mind  what  to  do,  and 
with  the  slightest  gesture  in  the  world,  motioned  Frank 
proudly  and  coldly  to  follow  her  back  into  the  window.  Had 
she  been  a  country  girl,  she  would  have  avoided  the  ugly 
matter ;  but  she  was  woman  of  the  world  enough  to  see 
that  she  must,  for  her  own  sake  and  his,  talk  it  out  reason- 
ably. 

21* 


n  18  COME    AT    LAST. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Headley  ?  I  must  ask  I  You 
told  me  just  uuw  that  you  had  no  intention  of  making  love 
to  me." 

"  1  told  you  the  truth,"  said  he,  in  his  quiet  impassive 
voice.  "  1  iixed  on  these  lines  as  a  pin  aller ;  and  tliey  have 
done  all,  and  more  than  I  wished,  by  bringing  you  back 
here  for  at  least  a  moment." 

"  And  do  you  suppose — you  speak  like  a  rational  man, 
therefore  I  must  treat  you  as  one  —  that  I  can  grant  your 
request  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  an  uncommon  one.  If  I  have  guessed 
your  character  aright,  you  are  able  to  do  uncommon  things. 
Had  1  thought  you  enslaved  by  etiquette,  and  by  the  liear 
of  a  world  which  you  can  make  bow  at  your  feet  if  you  will, 
I  should  not  have  asked  you.  But,"  —  and  here  his  voice 
took  a  tone  of  deepest  earnestness  —  "  grant  it  —  only  grant 
it,  and  you  shall  never  repent  it.  Never,  never,  never  will 
I  cast  one  shadow  over  a  light  which  has  been  so  glorious, 
BO  life-giving;  which  I  watched  with  delight,  and  yet  lose 
without  regret.  Go  your  way,  and  God  be  with  you  1  I  go 
mine  ;  grant  me  but  a  fortnight's  happiness,  and  then  —  let 
what  will  come  !  " 

He  had  conquered.  The  quiet  earnestness  of  the  voice, 
the  childlike  simplicity  of  the  manner,  of  which  every  word 
conveyed  the  most  delicate  flattery  —  yet,  she  could  see, 
without  intending  to  flatter,  without  an  after-thought  —  all 
these  had  won  the  impulsive  Irish  nature.  For  all  the 
dukes  and  marquises  in  Belgravia  she  would  not  have  done 
it ;  for  they  would  have  meant  more  than  they  said,  even 
when  they  spoke  more  clumsily  ;  but  for  the  plain  country 
curate  she  hesitated,  and  asked  herself,  "What  shall  I  give 
him  r" 

The  rose  from  her  bosom  ?  No.  That  was  too  significant 
at  once,  and  too  common-place  ;  besides,  it  might  wither, 
and  he  find  an  excuse  for  not  restoring  it.  It  must  be  some- 
thing valuable,  stately,  formal,  which  he  must  needs  return. 
And  she  drew  off  a  diamond  hoop,  and  put  it  quietly  into 
his  hand. 

"  You  promise  to  return  it  ?  " 

"  I  promised  long  ago." 

He  took  it,  and  lifted  it  —  she  thought  that  he  was  going 
to  press  it  to  his  lips.  Instead,  he  put  it  to  his  ibrehead, 
bowing  forward,  and  moved  it  slightly.  She  saw  that  ha 
made  with  it  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

"  1  thank  you,"  he  said,  with  a  look  (»f  quiet  gratitude 


COMK   AT   LAST.  319 

"  I  expected  as  much,  when  you  came  to  understand  my 
request.  Again,  thank  you  !  "  and  he  drew  back  humbly, 
and  left  her  there  alone  ;  while  her  heart  smote  her  bitterly 
for  all  the  foolish  encouragement  which  she  had  given  to 
one  so  tender,  and  humble,  and  delicate,  and  true. 

And  so  did  Frank  Headley  get  what  he  wanted  ;  by  that 
plain,  earnest  simplicity,  which  has  more  power  (let  world- 
lings pride  themselves  as  they  will  on  their  knowledge  of 
women)  than  all  the  cunning  wiles  of  the  most  experienced 
rake  ;  and  only  by  aping  which,  after  all,  can  the  rake  con- 
quer. It  was  a  strange  thing  for  Valencia  to  do,  no  doubt ; 
but  the  strange  things  which  are  done  in  the  world  (which 
are  some  millions  daily)  are  just  what  keep  the  world  alive 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

baalzebub's  banquet. 

The  next  day  there  were  three  cholera  cases ;  the  day 
after  there  were  thirteen. 

He  had  come  at  last, —  Baalzebub,  god  of  flies,  and  of  what 
flies  are  bred  from,  —  to  visit  his  self-blinded  worshippers, 
and  bestow  on  them  his  own  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Dishonor. 
lie  had  come  suddenly,  capriciously,  sportively,  as  he  some- 
times comes  ;  as  he  had  come  to  Newcastle  the  summer 
before,  while  yet  the  rest  of  England  was  untouched.  He 
had  wandered  all  but  harmless  about  the  West  country  that 
summer ;  as  if  his  maw  had  been  full-glutted  five  years 
before,  when  he  sat  for  many  a  week  upon  the  Dartmoor 
hills,  amid  the  dull  brown  haze,  and  sun-burnt  bents,  and 
dried  up  watercourses  of  white  dusty  granite,  looking  far 
and  wide  over  the  plague-struck  land,  and  listening  to 
the  dead-bell  booming  all  day  long  in  Tavistock  churchyard. 
But  he  w^  ■■./'ome  at  last,  with  appetite  more  fierce  than 
ever,  an'  \t'*A  darted  aside  to  seize  on  Aberalva,  and  not  to 
let  it  go  till  he  had  sucked  his  fill. 

And  all  men  moved  about  the  streets  slowly,  fearfully  ; 
conscious  of  some  awful  unseen  presence,  which  might 
spring  on  them  from  round  every  corner  ;  some  dreadful 
inevitable  spell,  which  lay  upon  them  like  a  nightmare 
weight ;  and  walked  to  and  fro  warily,  looking  anxiously 
into  each  other's  faces,  not  to  ask,  "  How  are  you  "/  "  but 
"How  am  1?"  "Do  I  look  as  if — ?"  and  glanced  up 
ever  and  anon  restlessly,  as  if  they  expected  to  see,  like  the 
Greeks,  in  their  tainted  camp  by  Troy,  the  pitiless  Sungod 
shooting  his  keen  arrows  down  on  beast  and  man. 

All  night  long  the  curdled  cloud  lay  low  upon  the  hills, 
wrapping  in  its  hot  blanket  the  sweltering,  breathless  town  ; 
and  rolled  off  sullenly  when  the  sun  rosa  high,  to  let  him 
pour  down  his  glare,  and  quicken  int^^  evil  life  all  evil 
things.  For  Baalzebub  is  a  sunny  fiend ;  and  loves  not 
storm  and  tempest,   thunder,  and  lashing  rains  ;  but  the 

(320) 


BAALZEBUB'S   BANQUET.  321 

broad  bright  sun,  and  broad  blue  sky,  under  which  he  can 
take  his  pastime  merrily,  and  laugh  at  all  the  shame  and 
agony  below  ;  and,  as  he  did  at  his  great  banquet  in  New 
Orleans  once,  madden  all  hearts  the  more  by  the  contrast 
between  the  pure  heaven  above  and  the  foul  hell  below 

And  up  and  down  the  town  the  foul  fiend  sported,  now 
here,  now  there  ;  snapping  daintily  at  unexpected  victims, 
as  if  to  make  confusion  worse  confounded,  to  belie  Thur- 
nail's  theories  and  prognostics,  and  harden  the  hearts  of 
fools  b}''  fresh  excuses  for  believing  that  he  had  nothing  to 
do  with  drains  and  watei-,  —  that  he  was  "  only  " — such  an 
only  !  —  "  the  visitation  of  God." 

He  has  taken  old  Beer's  second  son  ;  and  now  he  clutches 
at  the  old  man  himself :  then  across  the  street  to  Gentleman 
Jan,  his  eldest ;  but  he  is  driven  out  from  both  houses  by 
chloride  of  lime  and  peat-dust,  and  the  colony  of  the  Beera 
has  peace  a  while. 

Alas  !  there  are  victims  enough  and  to  spare  beside  them, 
too  ready  for  the  sacrifice  ;  and  up  the  main  street  he  goes 
unabashed,  springing  in  at  one  door  and  at  another,  on 
either  side  the  street,  but  fondest  of  the  western  side, 
where  the  hill  slopes  steeply  down  to  the  house-backs. 

He  fleshes  his  teeth  on  every  kind  of  prey.  The  drunken 
cobbler  dies,  of  course  ;  but  spotless  cleanliness  and  sobri- 
ety does  not  save  the  mother  of  seven  children,  who  has 
been  soaking  her  brick  floor  daily  with  water  from  a  poiuoned 
well,  defiling  where  she  meant  to  clean.  Youth  doea  not 
save  the  buxom  lass,  who  has  been  filling  herself,  as  girls 
will  do,  with  unripe  fruit ;  nor  innocence  the  two  i'air  •chil- 
dren who  were  sailing  their  feather-boats  yesterday  ia  the 
quay-pools,  as  they  have  sailed  them  for  three  years  pasi, 
and  found  no  hurt ;  piety  does  not  save  the  bed-nudrfn  old 
dame,  bed-ridden  in  the  lean-to  garret,  wlio  moans,  "  It  is 
the  Lord!"  and  dies.  It  is  "the  Lord"  to  her,  though 
Baalzebub  himself  be  the  angel  of  release. 

And  yet  all  the  while  sots  and  fools  escape  where  wise 
men  fall  ;  weakly  women,  living  amid  all  wr«l€hediiess, 
nurse,  unharmed,  strong  men  who  have  breathed  fresh  ait 
all  day.  Of  one  word  of  scripture,  at  least,  Ladlzcbub  ia 
mindful ;  for  "  one  is  taken  and  another  left." 

Still,  there  is  a  method  in  his  seeming  madnesi>.  His  ej^o 
falls  on  a  blind  alley,  running  back  from  the  main  street, 
backed  at  the  upper  end  by  a  high  wall  of  rock.  There  is 
a  God-send  for  him  —  a  devil's-send,  rather,  to  speak  plain 
truth  ;  and  in  he  dashes,  and  never  leaves  that  court,  let 


322  baalzebub's  banquet. 

brave  Tom  wrestle  with  him  as  he  may,  till  he  has  taken 
one  from  every  house. 

Tliat  court  belonged  to  Trolufldra,  the  old  fish-jowder. 
lie  must  do  something.  Tluunall  attacks  him  ;  Major 
Campbell,  Ileadley  ;  the  neighbors  join  in  the  cry ;  for 
tliere  is  no  mistaking  cause  and  eflect  there,  and  no  one 
bears  a  great  love  to  him  ;  besides,  terrified  and  conscience- 
stricken  men  are  glad  of  a  scape-goat ;  and  some  of  those 
who  were  his  stoutest  backers  in  the  vestry  are  now,  in 
their  terror,  the  loudest  against  him,  ready  to  impute  the 
wliole  cholera  to  him.  Indeed,  old  Beer  is  ready  to  declare 
that  it  was  Treluddra's  iish-heaps  that  poisoned  him  and 
his;  so,  all  but  mobbed,  the  old  sinner  goes  up  —  to  set 
the  houses  to  rights  ?  No  ;  to  curse  the  whole  lot  for  a  set 
of  pigs,  and  order  them  to  clean  the  place  out  them- 
selves, or  he  will  turn  them  into  the  street.  He  is  one  of 
those  base  natures,  whom  fact  only  lashes  into  greater  fury, 
a  Pharaoh  whose  heart  the  Lord  himself  can  oidy  harden  ;  — 
such  men  there  are,  and  women  too,  grown  gray  in  lies,  to 
reap  at  last  the  fruit  of  lies.  But  he  carries  back  with  him 
to  his  fish-heaps  a  little  invisible  somewhat  which  he  did 
not  bring  ;  and,  ere  nightfall,  he  is  dead  hideously  ;  he,  his 
wife,  his  son  ;  —  and  now  the  Beers  are  down  again,  and 
the  whole  neighborhood  of  Treluddra's  house  is  wild  with 
disgusting  agony. 

Now  the  fiend  is  hovering  round  the  fish-curing  houses  ; 
but  turns  back,  disgusted  with  the  pure  scent  of  the  tan- 
yard,  where  not  hides  but  nets  are  barked  ;  skips  on  board 
of  a  brig  in  the  quay-pool  ;  and  a  poor  collier's  'prentice  dies 
and  goes  to  his  own  place.  What  harm  has  he  done  ?  Is 
it  his  sin  that,  ill-fed  and  well-beaten  daily,  ho  has  been  left 
to  sleep  on  board,  just  opposite  the  sewer's  mouth,  in  a 
berth  some  four  feet  long  by  two  feet  high  and  broad  ? 

Or  is  it  that  poor  girl's  sin,  who  was  just  now  in  Heale's 
shop,  talking  to  Miss  Ileale  safe  and  sound,  that  she  is 
carried  back  into  it,  in  half  an  hour's  time,  fainting,  shriek- 
ing.    One  must  draw  a  veil  over  the  too  hideous  details. 

No,  not  her  fault ;  but  there,  at  least,  the  curse  has  not 
come  without  a  cause.     For  she  is  Tardrew's  daughter. 

But  whitlier  have  we  got  ?  How  long  has  tiie  cholera 
been  in  Aberalva  ?  Five  days,  five  minutes,  or  five  years  ? 
How  many  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Frank  Headley 
put  into  his  bosom  Valencia's  pledge  ? 

It  would  be  hard  for  him  to  tell,  and  hard  for  many  more ; 
for  all  the  days  have  passed  as  in  a  fever  dream.     To  cow 


BAALZEBUB'S    BANQUET.  323 

ards  the  time  has  seemed  endless  ;  and  every  moment,  ere 
their  term  shall  come,  an  age  of  terror,  of  self-reproach,  of 
superstitious  prayers  and  cries,  which  are  not  repentance. 
And  to  some  cowards,  too,  the  days  have  seemed  but  as  a 
moment,  for  they  have  been  drunk  day  and  night. 

Strange  and  hideous,  yet  true. 

It  has  now  become  a  mere  common-place,  the  strange 
power  which  great  crises,  pestilences,  fimiines,  revolutions, 
invasions,  have  to  call  out  in  their  highest  power,  for  evil 
and  for  good  alike,  the  passions  and  virtues  of  man  ;  how, 
duiing  their  stay,  the  most  desperate  recklessness,  the  most 
ferocious  crime,  side  by  side  with  the  most  heroic  and  unex- 
pected virtue,  are  followed  generally  by  a  collapse  and  a 
moral  death,  alike  of  virtue  and  of  vice.  We  should  explain 
this  now-a-days,  and  not  ill,  by  saying  that  these  crises  put 
the  human  mind  into  a  state  of  exaltation  ;  but  the  truest 
explanation,  after  all,  lies  in  the  old  Bible  belief,  that  in 
these  times  there  goes  abroad  the  unquenchable  fire  of  God, 
literally  kindling  up  all  men's  hearts  to  the  highest  activity 
and  showing,  by  the  light  of  their  own  strange  deeds,  the 
inmost  recesses  of  their  spirits,  till  those  spirits  burn  down 
again,  self-consumed,  while  the  chaff  and  stubble  are  left  as 
ashes,  not  valueless  after  all,  as  manure  for  some  future 
crop  ;  and  the  pure  gold,  if  gold  there  be,  alone  remains 
behind. 

Even  so  it  was  in  Aberalva  during  that  fearful  week. 
The  drunkards  drank  more  ;  the  swearers  swore  more  than 
ever ;  the  unjust  shopkeeper  clutched  more  greedily  than 
ever  at  the  few  last  scraps  of  mean  gain  which  remained  for 
him  this  side  the  grave  ;  the  selfish  wrapped  themselves  up 
more  brutally  than  ever  in  selfishness :  the  shameless  women 
mingled  desperate  debauchery  with  fits  of  frantic  supersti- 
tion ;  and  all  base  souls  cried  out  together,  "Let  us  eat 
and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die  !  " 

But  many  a  brave  man  and  many  a  weary  woman  pos- 
sessed their  souls  in  patience,  and  worked  on,  and  found 
that  as  their  day  their  strength  should  be.  And  to  them 
the  days  seemed  short  indeed  ;  for  there  was  too  much  to 
be  done  in  them  for  any  note  of  time. 

Headley  and  Campbell,  Grace  and  old  Willis,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  Tom  Thurnall, — these,  and  three  or  four 
brave  women,  organized  themselves  into  aright  gallant  and 
well-disciplined  band,  and  commenced  at  once  a  visitation 
from  house  to  house,  saving  thereby,  doubtless,  many  a 
life ;  but,  ere  eight-and-forty  hours  were  passed,  the  housa 


324  baalzebub's  banquet. 

visitation  languished.     It  was  as  much  as  they  could  do  ia 
attend  to  the  acute  cases. 

And  little  Scoutbush  ?  He  could  not  nurse,  nor  doctor  ; 
but  what  he  could  he  did.  He  boug'ht,  and  fetched  all  that 
mone}'  could  procure.  He  galloped  over  to  the  justice's, 
and  obtained  such  summary  powers  as  he  could  ;  and  then, 
like  a  true  Irishman,  exceeded  them  recklessly,  breaking 
into  premises  right  and  left,  in  an  utterly  burglarious  fash- 
ion. He  organized  his  fatigue  party,  as  he  called  them,  of 
scavengers,  and  paid  the  cowardly  clods  five  shillings  a  day 
each  to  work  at  removing  all  removable  nuisances  ;  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  streets  for  hours,  giving  the  sail- 
ors cigars  from  his  own  case,  just  to  show  them  that  he  was 
not  afraid,  and  therefore  they  need  not  be  ;  and,  if  it  was 
somewhat  his  fault  that  the  horse  was  stolen,  he  at  least 
did  his  best  after  the  event  to  shut  the  stable-door.  The 
five  real  workers  toiled  on,  meanwhile,  in  perfect  harmony 
and  implicit  obedience  to  the  all-knowing  Tom,  but  with 
the  most  different  inward  feelings.  Four  of  them  seemed 
to  forget  death  and  danger ;  but  each  remembered  them  in 
his  own  fashion. 

Major  Campbell  longed  to  die,  and  courted  death.  Frank 
believed  that  he  should  die,  and  was  ready  for  death.  Grace 
longed  to  die,  but  knew  that  she  should  not  die  till  she  had 
found  Tom's  belt,  and  was  content  to  wait.  Willis  was  of 
opinion  that  an  "  old  man  must  die  some  day,  and  some 
how  —  as  good  one  way  as  another;  "  and  all  his  concern 
was  to  run  about  after  his  maid,  seeing  that  she  did  not  tire 
herself,  and  obeying  all  her  orders  with  sailor-like  precision 
and  cleverness. 

And  Tom  ?  He  just  thought  nothing  about  danger  and 
death  at  all.  Always  smiling,  always  cheerful,  always 
busy,  yet  never  in  a  hurry,  ho  went  up  and  down,  seem- 
ingly ubiquitous.  Sleep  he  got  when  he  could,  and  food  as 
often  as  he  could  ;  into  the  sea  he  leaped  morning  and 
night,  and  came  out  fresher  every  time  ;  the  only  person  in 
the  town  who  seemed  to  grow  healthier,  and  actually  hap- 
pier, as  the  woi'k  went  on. 

"  You  really  must  be  careful  of  yourself,"  said  Campbell, 
at  last.     "  You  carry  no  charmed  life." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  am  the  most  cautious  and  selfish  man  in 
rne  town.  I  am  living  by  rule  ;  I  have  got  —  and  what 
greater  pleasure?  —  a  good  stand-up  fight  with  an  old 
enemy,  and  be  sure  I  shall  keep  myself  in  condition  for  it. 
1  have  written  off  for  help  to  the  board  of  health  ;  and  J 


baalzebub's  banquet.  325 

shall  not  be  shoved  against  the  ropes  till  the  government 
man  comes  down." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go  to  bed  and  sleep  for  a  month.  Never  mind 
me,  but  mind  yourself,  and  mind  that  curate  —  he  is  a  noble 
brick ;  if  all  parsons  in  England  were  like  him,  I  'd — 
What 's  here,  now  ?  " 

Miss  Heale  came  shrieking  down  the  street. 

"  0,  Mr.  Thurnall  !  Miss  Tardrew  I  Miss  Tardrew  I  " 

"  Screaming  will  only  make  you  ill,  too,  miss.  Where  is 
Miss  Tardrew  ?" 

"  In  the  surgery  ;  —  and  my  mother  !  " 

"  I  expected  this,"  said  Tom.  "  The  old  man  will  go 
next." 

He  went  into  the  surgery.  The  poor  girl  was  in  collapse 
already.  Mrs.  Heale  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  stricken.  The 
old  man  hanging  over  her,  brandy-bottle  in  hand. 

"Put  away  that  trash!"  cried  Tom;  "  you 've  had  too 
much  already." 

"  0,  Mr.  Thurnall,  she  's  dying,  and  I  shall  die  too  I  " 

"  You  !  you  were  all  right  this  morning." 

"  But  I  sluill  die  ;  I  know  I  sliall,  and  go  to  hell !  " 

"  You  '11  go  where  you  ought;  and,  if  you  give  way  to 
this  miserable  cowardice,  you  '11  go  soon  enough.  Walk 
out,  sir  !  Make  yourself  of  some  use,  and  forget  your  fear. 
Leave  Mrs.  Heale  to  me." 

The  wretched  old  man  obeyed  him,  utterly  cowed,  and 
went  out,  but  not  to  be  of  use  ;  he  had  been  helplessly 
boozy  from  the  first — half  to  fortify  his  body  against  infec- 
tion, half  to  fortify  his  heart  against  conscience.  Tom  had 
never  reproached  him  for  his  share  in  the  public  folly. 
Indeed,  Tom  had  never  reproached  a  single  soul.  Poor 
wretches  who  had  insulted  him  had  sent  for  him,  with 
abject  shrieks.  "0,  doctor,  doctor,  save  me  !  0,  forgive 
me!  0,  if  I  'd  minded  what  you  said!  0,  don't  think  of 
what  I  said  !  "  And  Tom  had  answered  cheerfully,  "  Tut, 
tut,  never  mind  what  might  have  been  ;  let 's  feel  your 
pulse." 

But,  though  Tom  did  not  reproach  Heale,  Ileale  re- 
preached  himself.  He  had  just  conscience  enough  left  to 
feel  the  whole  weight  of  his  abused  responsibility,  exagger- 
ated and  defiled  by  superstitious  horror ;  and,  maudlin 
tipsy,  he  wandered  about  the  street,  moaning  that  he  had 
murdered  his  wife,  and  all  the  town,  and  asking  pardon  of 
every  one  he  met ;  till,   seeing  one  of  the  meciting-l.ousea 

28 


826  baalzebub's  banquet. 

open,  he  staggered  in,  in  the  vague  hope  of  comfort  which 
he  knew  he  did  not  deserve. 

la  half  an  hour  Tom  was  down  the  street  again  to  Head- 
ley's.     "  Where  is  Miss  Harvey  ?  " 

"  At  the  Beers'." 

"  She  must  go  up  to  Heale's  instantly.  The  mother  will 
die.  Those  cases  uf  panic  seldom  recover.  And  Miss  Heale 
may  very  likely  fullow  her.  She  has  shrieked  and  sobbed 
herself  into  it,  poor  fool !  and  Grace  must  go  to  her  at  once  ; 
she  may  bring  her  to  common  sense  and  courage,  and  that 
is  the  only  chance." 

Grace  went,  and  litei'ally  talked  and  prayed  Miss  Heale 
into  lite  again. 

"  You  are  an  angel,"  said  Tom  to  her  that  very  even- 
ing, when  he  found  the  girl  past  danger. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall  !  "  said  Grace,  in  a  tone  of  sad  and  most 
meaning  reproof 

"  But  you  are  1     And  these  owls  are  not  worthy  of  you." 

"  This  is  no  time  for  such  language,  sir !  After  all,  what 
am  1  doing  more  than  you  ? "  And  Grace  went  up  stairs 
again,  with  a  cold,  hard  countenance  which  belied  utterly 
the  heart  within. 

That  was  the  critical  night  of  all.  The  disease  seemed 
to  have  done  its  worst  in  the  likeliest  spots  ;  but  cases  of 
panic  increased  all  the  afternoon  ;  and  the  gross  number 
was  greater  than  ever. 

Tom  did  not  delay  inquiring  into  the  cause  ;  and  he  dis- 
covered it.  Headley,  coming  out  the  next  morning,  after 
two  hours'  fitful  sleep,  met  him  at  the  gate  ;  his  usual 
business-like  trot  was  exchanged  for  a  fierce  and  hurried 
stamp.  When  he  saw  Frank,  he  stopped  short,  and  burst 
out  into  a  story  which  was  hardly  intelligible,  so  interlarded 
was  it  with  oaths. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  !  Thurnall,  calm  yourself,  and  do 
not  swear  so  frightfully  ;  it  is  so  unlike  you  I  What  can  have 
upset  you  thus  '{  " 

"  Why  should  I  not  curse  and  swear  in  the  street," 
gasped  he,  "  while  every  fellow  who  calls  himself  a 
preacher  is  allowed  to  do  it  in  the  pulpit  with  impunity  ! 
F'ue  him  five  shillings  for  every  curse,  as  you  might  if 
people  had  courage  and  common  sense,  and  then  cumplain 
of  me  !  1  am  a  fool,  I  know,  though.  But  I  cannot  stand 
it  I  To  have  all  my  work  undone  by  a  brutal,  ignorant 
fanatic  !  —  it  is  too  much  !  Here,  if  you  will  believe  it,  are 
those  preaching  fellows  getting  up  a  revival,  or  some  such 


baalzebub's  banquet.  327 

Invention,  just  to  make  money  out  of  the  cholera  !  They 
have  got  down  a  great  gun  from  the  country  town.  Twice 
a  day  they  are  preaching  at  them,  telling  them  that  it  is 
all  God's  wrath  against  their  sins  ;  that  it  is  impious  to  inter- 
fere, and  that  I  am  fighting  against  God,  and  the  end  of  the 
woi'ld  is  coming,  and  they  and  the  devil  only  know  what. 
If  I  meet  one  of  them,  1  '11  wring  his  neck,  and  be  hanged 
for  it  1  0,  you  parsons  !  you  parsons  !  "  and  Tom  ground 
his  teeth  with  rage. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     How  did  you  find  this  out  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Heale  had  been  in,  listening  to  their  howling,  just 
before  she  was  taken.  Heale  went  in  when  I  turned  him 
out  of  doors  ;  came  home  raving  mad,  and  is  all  but  blue 
now.  Three  cases  of  women  have  I  had  this  morning,  all 
frightened  into  cholei'a,  by  their  own  confession,  by  last 
night's  tom-foolery.  Came  home  howling,  fainted,  and 
were  taken  before  morning.  One  is  dead,  the  other  two 
will  die.  You  must  stop  it,  or  I  shall  have  half  a  dozen 
more  to-night !  Go  into  the  meeting,  and  curse  the  cur  to 
his  face  !" 

"  I  cannot,"  cried  Frank,  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  I 
cannot !  " 

"  Ah  !  your  cloth  forbids  you,  I  suppose,  to  enter  the  non- 
conformist opposition-sliop." 

"  You  are  unjust,  Thurnall  I  What  are  such  rules  at  a 
moment  like  this  ?  I  'd  break  them,  and  the  bishop  would 
hold  me  guiltless.  But  I  cannot  speak  to  these  people.  I 
have  no  eloquence  —  no  readiness  —  they  do  not  trust  me 
—  would  not  believe  me  —  God  help  me  !  "  and  Frank  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Not  that,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  "  said  Tom,  "  or  we  shall 
have  you  blue  next,  my  good  fellow.  I  'd  go  myself,  but 
they  'd  not  hear  me,  for  certain.  I  am  no  Christian,  I  sup- 
pose :  at  least  I  can't  talk  their  slang  ;  but  I  know  who  can  ! 
We  '11  send  Campbell  !  " 

Frank  hailed  the  suggestion  with  rapture,  and  away  they 
went ;  but  they  had  an  hour's  good  search  from  sufferer  to 
Bufferer  before  they  found  the  major. 

He  heard  them  quietly.  A  severe  gloom  settled  over  his 
face.     "  I  will  go,"  said  he. 

At  six  o'clock  that  evening,  the  meeting-house  was  filling 
with  terrified  women,  and  half-curious,  half-sneering  men  ; 
and  among  them  the  tall  figure  of  Major  Campbell,  in  his 
undress  uniform,  —  which  he  had  put  on,  wisely,  to  give  a 


328  baalzebub's  banquet. 

certain  dignity  to  his  mission,  —  stalked  in,  and  took  his  scat 
in  the  back  benches. 

The  sermon  was  what  he  expected.  There  is  no  need  tc 
transcribe  it.  Such  discourses  may  be  heard  often  enough 
ill  churches  as  well  as  chapels.  The  preacher's  object  seemed 
to  be  —  for  some  purpose  or  other  which  we  have  no  right  tc 
judge — to  excite  in  his  hearers  the  utmost  intensity  of  self- 
ish Tear,  by  language  whicli,  certainly,  as  Tom  had  said,  came 
under  the  law  against  profane  cursing  and  swearing.  He 
described  the  next  world  in  language  which  seemed  a  strange 
fumble  of  Virgil's  ^Eneid,  the  Koran,  the  dreams  of  those 
rabbis  who  crucified  our  L(jrd,  and  uf  those  mediaival  inquis- 
itors who  tried  to  convert  sinners  —  and,  on  their  own 
ground,  neither  illogically  nor  over-harshly  —  by  making 
this  world  for  a  few  hours  as  like  as  possible  to  what, 
so  they  held,  God  was  going  to  make  the  world  to  come 
forever. 

At  last  he  stopped  suddenly,  when  he  saw  that  the 
animal  excitement  was  at  the  very  highest ;  and  called 
on  all  who  felt  "  convinced  "  to  come  forward  and  confess 
their  sins. 

In  another  minute  there  would  have  been  —  as  there  have 
been  ere  now  —  four  or  five  young  girls  raving  and  tossing 
upon  the  floor,  in  mad  terror  and  excitement ;  or,  possibly, 
half  the  congregation  might  have  rushed  out  —  as  a  congre- 
gation has  rushed  out  ere  now  —  headed  by  the  preacher 
himself,  and  ran  headlong  down  to  the  quay-pool,  with 
shrieks  and  shouts,  declaring  that  they  had  cast  the  devil 
out  of  Betsey  Pennington,  and  were  hunting  him  into  the 
sea  ;  but  Campbell  saw  that  the  madness  must  be  stopped  at 
once  ;  and  rising,  he  thundered,  in  a  voice  which  brought  all 
to  their  senses  in  a  moment  — 

"  Stop  !  I,  too,  have  a  sermon  to  preach  to  you  ;  I  trust 
I  am  a  Christian  man,  and  that  not  of  last  year's  making,  or 
the  year  before.  Follow  me  outside,  if  you  be  rational 
beings,  and  let  me  tell  you  the  truth  —  God's  truth  !  Men  !  " 
he  said,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  word,  "you,  at  least,  will 
give  me  a  fair  hearing,  and  you,  too,  modest  married  women  I 
Leave  that  fellow  with  the  shameless  hussies  who  like  to  go 
into  fits  at  his  feet !  " 

The  appeal  was  not  in  vain.  The  soberer  majority  ful- 
lowed  him  out ;  the  insane  minority  soon  followed,  in  tho 
mere  hope  of  fresh  excitement ;  while  the  preacher  was  fain 
to  come  also,  to  guard  his  flock  from  the  wolf.     Campbell 


baalzebub's  banquet.  329 

sprang-  upon  a  large  block  of  stone,  and,  taking  off  his  cap, 

opened  his  mouth,  and  spake  unto  them. 

****** 

Readers  will  doubtless  desire  to  hear  what  Major  Camp- 
bell said  :  but  the}^  will  be  disappointed  ;  and,  perhaps,  it 
is  better  for  them  that  they  should  be.  Let  each  of  them, 
if  they  think  it  worth  while,  write  for  themselves  a  discourse 
fitting  for  a  Christian  man,  who  loved  and  honored  his  Biblgi 
too  much  to  find  in  a  few  scattered  texts,  all  misinterpreted, 
and  some  mistranslated,  excuses  for  denying  fact,  reason, 
common  justice,  the  voice  of  God  in  his  own  moral  sense, 
and  the  whole  remainder  of  the  Bible  from  beginning  to 
end. 

Whatsoever  words  he  spoke,  they  came  home  to  those 
wild  hearts  with  power.  And  when  he  paused,  and  looked 
intently  into  the  faces  of  his  auditory,  to  see  what  effect  he 
was  producing,  a  murmur  of  assent  and  admiration  rose  from 
the  crowd,  which  had  now  swelled  to  half  the  population  of 
the  town.  And  no  wonder  ;  no  wonder  that  as  the  men 
were  enchained  by  the  matter,  so  were  the  women  by  the 
manner.  The  grand  head,  like  a  gray  granite  peak  against 
the  clear  blue  sky  :  the  tall  figure,  with  all  its  martial  state- 
liness  and  ease  ;  the  gesture  of  his  long  arm,  so  graceful, 
and  yet  so  self-restrained  :  the  tones  of  the  voice  which 
poured  from  beneath  that  proud  moustache,  now  tender  as  a 
girl's,  now  ringing  like  a  trumpet  over  roof  and  sea.  There 
were  old  men  there,  old  beyond  the  years  of  man,  who  said 
that  they  had  never  seen  nor  heard  the  like  ;  but  it  must  be 
like  what  their  fathers  had  told  them  of,  when  John  Wesley, 
on  the  cliffs  of  St.  Ives,  out-thundered  the  thunder  of  the 
gale.  To  Grace  he  seemed  one  of  the  old  Scotch  Covenant- 
ers of  whom  she  had  read,  risen  from  the  dead  to  preach 
there,  from  his  rock  beneath  the  great  temple  of  God's  air,  a 
wider  and  a  juster  creed  than  theirs.  Frank  drew  Thurn- 
all's  arm  through  his,  and  whispered,  "  I  shall  thank  you 
for  this  to  my  dying  day  ;  "  but  Thurnall  held  down  his 
head.    He  seemed  deepl}'  moved.    At  last,  half  to  himself,  • 

"  Humph  !  I  believe  that  between  this  man  and  that  girl 
you  will  make  a  Christian  even  of  me  some  day  !  " 

But  the  lull  was  only  for  a  moment.  For  Major  Campbell, 
looking  round,  discerned  among  the  crowd  the  preacher, 
whispering  and  scowling  amid  a  knot  of  women  ;  and  a  sud- 
den fit  of  righteous  wrath  came  over  him. 

"  Stand  out  there,  sir,  you  preacher,  and  look  me  in  the 
face,  if  you  can  !  "  thundered  he.     "  We  are  here  on  common 

28* 


330  baalzebub's  banquet. 

^onnd  as  free  men,  beneath  God's  heaven  and  God's  oje. 
Stand  out,  sir  !  and  answer  me  if  you  can  ;  or  be  forever 
silent !  " 

Half  in  unconscious  obedience  to  the  soldier-like  word  of 
command,  half  in  j'oalous  rage,  the  preacher  stepped  forward, 
gasping  fur  breath, — 

"  Don't  listen  to  him  !  He  is  a  messenger  of  Satan,  sent 
to  damn  you — a  lying  prophet!  Let  the  Lord  judge  be- 
tween mo  and  him!  Stop  your  ears  —  a  messenger  of 
Satan  —  a  Jesuit  in  disguise  !  " 

"  You  lie,  and  you  know  that  you  lie  !  "  answered  Camj)- 
bell,  twirling  slowly  his  long  moustache,  as  he  always  did 
when  choking  down  indignation.  "  But  you  have  called 
on  the  Lord  to  judge  ;  so  do  L  Listen  to  me,  sir !  Dare 
you,  in  the  presence  of  God,  answer  for  the  words  which 
you  have  spoken  this  day  ?  " 

A  strange  smile  came  over  the  preacher's  face. 

"I  read  my  title  clear,  sir,  to  mansions  in  the  skies. 
Well  for  you  if  you  could  do  the  same." 

Was  it  only  the  setting  sun,  or  was  it  some  inner  light 
from  the  depths  of  that  great  spirit,  which  shone  out  in  all 
his  coimtenance,  and  filled  his  eyes  with  awful  inspiration, 
as  he  spoke,  in  a  voice  calm  and  sweet,  sad  and  regretful, 
and  yet  terrible  from  the  slow  distinctness  of  every  vowel 
and  consonant  ? 

"  Mansions  in  the  skies  ?  You  need  not  wait  till  then, 
sir,  for  the  presence  of  God.  Now,  here,  you  and  I  are 
before  God's  judgment-seat.  Now,  here,  I  call  on  you  to 
answer  to  Him  for  the  innocent  lives  which  you  have  en- 
dangered and  destroyed,  for  the  innocent  souls  to  whom 
you  have  slandered  their  heavenly  Father  by  your  devil's 
doctrines  this  day  !  You  have  said  it.  Let  the  Lord  judge 
between  you  and  me.  He  knows  best  how  to  make  his 
judgment  manifest." 

He  bowed  his  head  a  while,  as  if  overcome  by  the  awful 
words  which  he  had  uttered,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
then  stepped  slowly  down  from  the  stone,  and  passed 
through  the  crowd,  which  reverently  made  way  for  him  ; 
while  many  voices  cried,  "Thank  you,  sir  !  Thank  you  !  " 
and  old  Captain  Willis,  stepping  forward,  held  out  his  hand 
to  him,  a  quiet  pride  in  his  gray  eye. 

"You  will  nut  refuse  an  old  fighting  man's  thanks,  sirl 
This  has  been  like  Elijah's  day  with  Baal's  priests  oij 
Carmel." 

Campbell  shook  his  hand  in  silence  ;  but  turned  suddenly, 


BAALZEBUB'S   BANQUET.  331 

for  another  and  a  coarser  voice  caught  his  ear.  It  was 
Jones,  the  Heutenant's. 

"And  now,  my  lads,  take  the  Metholist  parson,  neck 
and  heels,  and  heave  him  into  the  quay  pool,  to  think  over 
his  summons  !  " 

Campbell  went  back  instantly.  "  No,  my  dear  sir,  let 
me  entreat  you  for  my  sake.  What  has  passed  has  been 
too  terrible  to  me  already  ;  if  it  has  done  any  good,  do  not 
let  us  spoil  it  by  breaking  the  law." 

"  I  believe  you  're  right,  sir  ;  but  my  blood  is  up,  and  no 
wonder.     AVhy,  where  is  the  preacher  '^  " 

He  had  stood  quite  still  for  several  minutes  after  Camp- 
bell's adjuration.  He  had  often,  perhaps,  himself  hurled 
forth  such  words  in  the  excitement  of  preaching ;  but  never 
before  had  he  heard  them  pronounced  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 
And,  as  he  stood,  Thurnall,  who  had  his  doctor's  e^^e  on 
him,  saw  him  turn  paler  and  more  pale.  Suddenly  he 
clenched  his  teeth,  and  stooped  slightly  forwards  for  a  mo- 
ment, drawing  in  his  breath.  Thurnall  walked  quickly  and 
Bteadily  up  to  him. 

Gentleman  Jan  and  two  other  riotous  fellows  had  already 
laid  hold  of  him,  more  with  the  intention  of  frightening, 
than  of  really  ducking  him. 

"Don't!  don't!"  cried  he,  looking  round  with  eyes 
wild,  but  not  with  terror. 

"Hands  off,  my  good  lads,"  said  Tom,  quietly.  "  Thia 
is  my  business  now,  not  yours,  I  can  tell  you." 

And  passing  the  preacher's  arm  through  his  own,  with  a 
serious  flice,  Tom  led  him  ofiFinto  the  house  at  the  back  of 
the  chapel. 

In  two  hours  more  he  was  blue  ;  in  four  he  was  a 
corpse.  The  judgment,  as  usual,  had  needed  no  miracle 
to  enforce  it. 

Tom  went  to  Campbell  that  night,  and  apprised  him  of 
the  fact.  "  Those  words  of  yours  went  through  him,  sir, 
like  a  Minie  bullet.  I  was  afraid  of  what  would  happen 
when  I  heard  them.'* 

"So  was  I,  the  moment  after  they  were  spoken.  But, 
sir,  I  felt  a  power  upon  me,  —  you  may  think  it  a  fancy,  — 
that  there  was  no  resisting." 

"  I  dare  impute  no  fancies,  when  I  hear  such  truth  and 
reason  as  j^ou  spoke  upon  that  stone,  sir." 

"  Then  you  do  not  blame  me  ?  "  asked  Campbell,  with  a 
subdued,  almost  deprecatory  voice,  such  as  Thurn.iU  had 
never  heard  in  him  before. 


S32  baalzebub's  banquet. 

'*  The  man  deserved  to  die,  and  he  died,  sir.  It  is  well 
that  there  are  some  means  left  on  earth  of  punishing  offend- 
ers whom  tlie  law  cannot  touch." 

"  It  is  an  awful  responsibility." 

"  Not  more  awful  than  killing  a  man  in  battle,  which 
we  both  have  done,  sir,  and  3'et  have  felt  no  sting  of  con- 
Bcience." 

"  An  awful  responsibility  still.  Yet  what  else  is  life 
made  up  of,  from  morn  to  night,  but  of  deeds  which  may 
earn  heaven  or  hell  ?  .  .  .  Well,  as  he  did  to  others,  so  was 
it  done  to  him.  God  forgive  him  !  At  least,  our  cause 
will  be  soon  tried  and  judged  ;  there  is  little  fear  of  my  not 
meeting  him  again  —  soon  enough."  And  Campbell,  with 
a  sad  smile,  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  was  silent. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Tom,  "allow  me  to  remind  you, 
after  this  excitement  comes  a  collapse  ;  and  that  is  not  to 
be  trifled  with  just  now.  Medicine  I  dare  not  give  you. 
Food  I  must." 

Campbell  shook  his  head. 

"  You  must  go  now,  my  dear  fellow.  It  is  now  half  past 
ten,  and  I  will  be  at  Pennington's  at  one  o'clock,  to  see 
how  he  goes  on  ;  so  you  need  not  go  there.  And,  mean- 
while, I  must  take  a  little  medicine." 

"  Major,  you  are  not  going  to  doctor  yourself?  "  cried 
Tom. 

"  There  is  a  certain  medicine  called  pra3'er,  Mr.  Thurnall, 
—  an  old  specific  for  the  heart-ache,  as  you  will  find  one 
day, — which  I  have  been  neglecting  much  of  late,  and 
which  I  must  return  to  in  earnest  before  midnight.  Good- 
by,  God  bless  and  keep  you  !  "  And  the  major  retired  to 
his  bedroom,  and  did  not  stir  off  his  knees  for  two  full  hours. 
After  which  he  went  to  Pennington's,  and  thence  somewhere 
else  :  and  Tom  met  him  at  four  o'clock  that  morning  musing 
amid  unspeakable  horrors,  quiet,  genial,  almost  cheerful. 

"You  are  a  man,"  said  Tom  to  himself;  "  and  I  fancy 
at  times  something*-  more  than  a  man  ;  more  than  me  at 
least." 

Tom  was  right  in  liis  fear  that  after  excitement  would 
come  collapse  ;  but  wrong  as  to  the  person  to  whom  it 
would  come.  When  he  arrived  at  the  surgery  door.  Head- 
ley  stood  waiting  for  him. 

"  Anything  fresh  ?     Have  you  seen  the  Heales  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  praying  with  them.  Don't  be  fn'ght- 
ened.  1  am  not  likely  to  forget  the  lesson  of  this  after- 
noon." 


baalzebub's  banquet.  333 

"  Then  go  to  bed.     It  is  full  twelve  o'clock." 

"  Not  yet,  I  fear.  I  want  you  to  see  old  Willis.  All  ia 
not  right." 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  the  poor  dear  old  man  would  kill  him- 
self, lie  has  been  working  too  hard,  and  presuming  on  his 
sailor's  power  of  tumbling  in  and  taking  a  dog's  nap  when- 
ever he  chose." 

"  I  have  warned  him  again  and  ag'ain  ;  but  he  was  work- 
ing  so  magnificently  that  one  had  hardly  heart  to  stop 
him.     And,  beside,  nothing  would  part  him  from  his  maid." 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  that !  "  quoth  Tom  to  himself.  "  Is 
she  with  him  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  found  himself  ill  ;  slipped  home  on  some  pre- 
tence, and  will  not  hear  of  our  telling  her." 

"  Noble  old  fellow  !  Caring  for  every  one  but  himself  to 
the  last."     And  they  went  in. 

It  was  one  of  those  rare  cases,  fatal,  yet  merciful  withal, 
in  which  the  poison  seems  to  seize  the  very  centre  of  the 
life,  and  to  preclude  the  chance  of  lingering  torture  by  one 
deadening  blow. 

The  old  man  lay  paralyzed,  cold,  pulseless,  but  quite 
collected  and  cheerful.  Tom  looked,  inquired,  shook  his 
head,  and  called  for  a  hot  bath  of  salt  and  water. 

"  Warmth  we  must  have  somehow.  Anything  to  keep 
the  fire  alight." 

"  AVhy  so,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  old  man.  "  The  fire  's  been 
flickering  down  this  many  a  year.  Why  not  let  it  go  out 
quietly,  at  threescore  years  and  ten  ?  You  're  sure  my  maid 
don't  know  ?  " 

They  put  him  into  his  bath,  and  he  revived  a  little. 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  going  to  get  well  ;  so  don't  j'ou  waste 
your  time  on  me,  sirs  !  I  'm  taken  while  doing  my  duty,  as 
I  hoped  to  be.  And  I  've  lived  to  see  my  maid  do  hers,  as 
I  knew  she  would,  when  the  Lord  called  on  her.  I  have,  — 
but  don't  tell  her,  she 's  well  employed,  and  has  sorrows 
enough  already,  some  that  you  '11  know  of  some  day  —  " 

"  You  must  not  talk,"  quoth  Tom,  who  guessed  his  mean- 
ing, and  wished  to  avoid  the  subject. 

"  Yes,  but  I  must,  sir.  I  've  no  time  to  lose.  If  you  'd 
but  go  and  see  after  those  poor  Heales,  and  come  again. 
I  'd  like  to  have  one  word  with  Mr.  Headley  ;  and  my  time 
runs  short." 

"A  hundred,  if  you  will,"  said  Frank. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  when  they  were  alone,  "  only  one  thing, 
if  you  '11  excuse  au  old  sailor,"  and  Willia  tried  vainly  to 


334  baalzebub's  banquet. 

make  his  usual  salutation  ;  but  the  cramped  hand  refused 
to  obey,  "and  a  dying  one,  too." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Only  don't  be  hard  on  the  people,  sir  ;  the  people  here. 
Tl'.ey  're  good-hearted  souls,  with  all  their  sins,  if  you  '11 
onl}'  lake  them  as  you  find  them,  and  consider  that  they  've 
h;id  no  chance." 

"Willis,  WiUis,  don't  talk  of  that!  I  shall  be  a  wiser 
man  henceforth,  1  trust.  At  least,  I  shall  not  trouble  Abe- 
ralva  long." 

"  0,  sir,  don't  talk  so  ;  and  you  just  getting  a  hold  of 
them  !  " 

"  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  you,  sir.  They  've  found  you  out  at  last,  thank 
God  I  I  always  knew  what  you  were,  and  said  it.  They  've 
i'ound  you  out  in  the  last  week  ;  and  there  's  not  a  man  in 
the  town  but  what  would  die  for  j^ou,  I  believe." 

This  announcement  staggered  Frank.  Some  men  it  would 
have  only  hardened  in  their  pedantry,  and  have  emboldened 
them  to  say,  "Ah  !  then  these  men  see  that  a  High  Church- 
man can  work  like  any  one  else,  when  there  is  a  practical 
sacrifice  to  be  made.  Now  I  have  a  standing  ground  which 
no  one  can  dispute,  from  which  to  go  on,  and  enforce  my 
idea  of  what  he  ought  to  bo." 

But,  rightly  or  wrongly,  no  such  thought  crossed  Frank's 
mind.  He  was  just  as  good  a  Churchman  as  ever  —  why 
not  ?  Just  as  fond  of  his  own  ideal  of  what  a  parish  and  a 
Church  service  ought  to  be  —  why  not?  But  the  only 
thought  which  did  rise  in  his  mind  was  one  of  utter  self- 
abasement. 

"  0,  how  blind  I  have  been  !  How  I  have  wasted  my 
time  in  laying  down  the  law  to  these  people  ;  fancying 
myself  infallible,  as  if  God  were  not  as  near  to  them  as  he 
is  to  me,  —  certainly  nearer  than  to  any  book  on  m}'-  slielves, 
—  offending  their  little  prejudices,  little  superstitions,  in 
ny  own  cruel  selfconceit  and  self  will  !  And  now,  the  first 
time  that  I  forget  my  own  rules,  the  first  time  that  I  forget 
almost  that  1  am  a  priest,  even  a  Christian  at  all,  that  mo- 
ment they  acknowledge  me  as  a  priest,  as  a  Christian.  The 
moment  I  meet  them  upon  the  commonest  numan  ground, 
helping  them  as  one  heathen  would  help  another,  simply 
because  he  was  his  own  llesh  and  blood,  that  moment  they 
soften  to  me,  and  show  me  how  much  I  might  have  done 
with  them  twelve  months  ago,  had  I  had  but  common 
sense  1 " 


baalzebub's  banquet.  S35 

He  knelt  down  and  prayed  by  the  old  man,  for  him  and 
for  himself. 

"  Would  it  be  troubling  you,  sir  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  at 
last.     "  But  I  'd  like  to  take  the  Sacrament  before  I  go." 

"  Of  course.     Whom  shall  I  ask  in  ?  " 

The  old  man  paused  a  while. 

"  I  fear  it 's  selfish  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  —  I  would  not 
ask  it,  but  that  I  know  I  'm  going.  I  should  like  to  take  it 
with  my  maid  once  more  before  1  die." 

"I'll  go  for  her,"  said  Frank,  "the  moment  Thurnall 
comes  back  to  watch  you." 

"  What  need  to  go  youi'self,  sir  ?  Old  Sarah  will  go  and 
willing." 

Thurnall  came  in  at  that  moment. 

"I  am  going  to  fetch  Miss  Harvey.  Where  is  ,he, 
captain  ?  " 

"At  Janey  Headon's,  along  with  her  two  poor  chil- 
dren." 

"Stay,"  said  Tom,  "that's  a  bad  quarter,  just  at  the 
fish-house  back.     Have  some  brandy  before  you  start  ?  " 

"No!  no  Dutch  courage!"  and  Frank  was  gone.  He 
had  a  word  to  say  to  Grace  Harvey,  and  it  must  be  said  at 
once. 

He  turned  down  the  silent  street,  and  turned  up  over 
etone  stairs,  through  quaint  stone  galleries  and  balconies, 
■ —  such  as  are  often  huddled  together  on  the  clifi"  sides  in 
fishing  towns,  —  into  a  stifling  cottage,  the  door  of  which 
had  been  set  wide  open,  in  the  vain  hope  of  fresh  air.  A 
woman  met  him,  and  clasped  both  his  hands,  with  tears 
of  joy. 

"They're  mending,  sir  I  They're  mending,  else  I'd 
have  sent  to  tell  you.     I  never  looked  for  you  so  late." 

There  was  a  gentle  voice  in  the  next  room.  It  was 
Grace's. 

"  Ah,  she  is  praying  by  them  now.  She  'm  giving  them 
all  their  medicines  all  along  !  Whatever  I  should  have  done 
without  her!  —  and  in  and  out  all  day  long,  too  ;  till  one 
fancies  at  whiles  the  Lord  must  have  changed  her  into  five 
or  six  at  once,  to  be  everywhere  to  the  same  minute." 

Frank  went  in,  and  listened  to  her  prayer.     Her  face  was 

as  pale  and  calm  as  the  pale,  calm  faces  of  the  two  worn-out 

babes,  whose  heads  lay  on  the  pillow  close  to  hers  ;  but  her 

eyes  were  lit  up  with  an  intense  glory,  which  seemed  to  fiU 

ne  room  with  love  and  light. 

Frank  listened,  but  would  not  break  the  spell. 


336  BAALZEBUB'S   BANQUET. 

At  last  she  rose,  looked  round,  and  blushed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  .^ir,  for  takin^^  the  libertj;.  If  I  had 
known  that  you  were  about,  I  would  have  sent  ;  but,  hear- 
ing; that  you  were  gone  home,  I  thouglit  you  would  not  be 
ofl'ended  if  I  gave  thanks  for  them  myself.  They  are  my 
own,  sir,  as  it  were  —  " 

"  0,  Miss  Ilarvey,  do  not  talk  so  !  While  you  can  pray 
as  you  were  praying  then,  he  who  would  silence  you  might 
be  silencing  unawares  the  Lord  himself!  " 

She  made  no  answer,  though  the  change  in  Frank's  tone 
moved  her  ;  and,  when  he  told  her  his  errand,  that  thought 
also  passed  from  her  mind. 

At  last,  "  Happy,  happy  man  !  "  she  said,  calmly  ;  and, 
putting  on  her  bonnet,  Ibllowed  Frank  out  of  the  house. 

"  Miss  Ilarvey,"  said  Frank,  as  they  hurried  up  the  street, 
"  I  must  say  one  word  to  you  before  we  take  that  Sacrament 
together." 

"Sir?" 

"  It  is  well  to  confess  all  sins  before  the  Eucharist,  and  I 
will  confess  mine.  I  have  been  unjust  to  you.  I  know 
that  you  hate  to  be  praised,  so  1  will  not  tell  j'ou  what  has 
altered  my  opinion.  But  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  ever 
do  so  base  a  thing  as  to  take  the  school  away  from  one  who 
is  far  more  fit  to  rule  in  it  than  ever  I  shall  be  !  " 

Grace  burst  into  tears. 

"  Thank  God  !  And  I  thank  you,  sir  !  0,  there  's  never 
a  storm  but  what  some  gleam  breaks  through  it  I  And 
now,  sir,  I  would  not  have  told  it  you  before,  lest  you 
should  tancy  that  I  changed  for  the  sake  of  gain  — though, 
perhaps,  that  is  pride,  as  too  much  else  has  been.  But  you 
will  never  hear  of  me  inside  either  of  those  chapels  again." 

"  What  has  altered  your  opinion  of  them,  then  ?  " 

"It  would  take  long  to  tell,  sir;  but  what  happened 
this  morning  filled  the  cup.  I  begin  to  think,  sir,  that 
their  God  and  mine  are  not  the  same.  Though  wliy  should 
I  judge  them,  who  worshipped  that  other  God  myself  till 
no  such  long  time  since  ;  and  never  knew,  poor  f(Jol,  that 
the  Lord's  name  was  Love." 

"I  have  found  out  that,  too,  in  these  last  days.  More 
(shame  to  me  than  to  you  that  I  did  not  know  it  before." 

"  Well  for  us  both  that  we  do  know  now,  sir.  For,  if  we 
believed  Ilim  now,  sir,  to  be  aught  but  perfect  Love,  how 
could  we  look  round  here  to-night,  and  not  go  mad  ?  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  Frank. 


baalzebub's  banquet.  337 

And  how  had  the  pestilence,  of  all  things  on  earth,  re- 
vealed to  those  two  noble  souls  that  God  is  Love  ? 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  have  supplied  Campbell's  sermon, 
answer  the  question  for  himself. 

They  went  in,  and  up  stairs  to  Willis. 

Grace  bent  over  the  old  man,  tenderly,  but  with  no  sign 
of  sorrow.  Dry-eyed,  she  kissed  the  old  man's  forehead  ; 
arranged  his  bed-clothes,  woman-like,  before  she  knelt  down, 
and  then  the  three  received  the  Sacrament  together. 

"  Don't  turn  me  out,"  whispered  Tom.  "  It 's  no  concern 
of  mine,  of  course  ;  but  you  are  all  good  creatures,  and, 
somehow,  I  should  like  to  be  with  you." 

So  Tom  stayed  ;  and  what  thoughts  passed  through  his 
heart  are  no  concern  of  ours. 

Frank  put  the  cup  to  the  old  man's  lips  ;  the  lips  closed, 
sipped,  —  then  opened the  jaw  had  fallen. 

"Gone,"  said  Grace,  quietly. 

Frank  paused,  awe-struck. 

"Go  on,  sir,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice.  "He  hears  it 
all  more  clearly  than  he  ever  did  before."  And,  by  the 
dead  man's  side,  Frank  finished  the  Communion  Service. 

Grace  rose  when  it  was  over,  kissed  the  calm  forehead, 
and  went  out  without  a  word. 

"Tom,"  said  Frank,  in  a  whisper,  "come  into  the  next 
room  with  me." 

Tom  hardly  heard  the  tone  in  which  the  words  were 
spoken,  or  he  would,  perhaps,  have  answered  otherwise 
than  he  did. 

"  My  father  takes  the  Communion,"  said  he,  half  to  him- 
self    "At  least,  it  is  a  beautiful  old  —  " 

Howsoever  the  sentence  would  have  been  finished,  Tom 
stopped  short  — 

"  Hey  ?     ^Vhat  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"At  last?"  gasped  Frank,  gently  enough.  "Excuse 
me  !  "  He  was  bowed  almost  double,  crushing  Thurnall's 
arm  in  the  fierce  gripe  of  pain. 

"  Pish  !  —  Hang  it  !  — Impossible  !  —  There,  you  are  all 
right  now  !  " 

"  For  the  time.  I  can  understand  many  things  now. 
Curious  sensation  it  is,  though.  Can  you  conceive  a  sword 
put  in  on  one  side  of  the  waist,  just  above  the  hip-hone, 
and  drawn  through,  handle  and  all,  till  it  passes  out  at  the 
opposite  point  ?  " 

"  I  have  felt  it  twice  ;  and,  therefore,  you  will  be  pleased 
29 


338  baalzebub's  banquet. 


to  hold  your  tongue,  and  go  to  bed.  Have  you  had  any 
warnings  ?  " 

"Yes,  —  no,  —  that  is  —  this  morning;  but  I  forgot. 
Never  mind  !  What  matter  a  hundred  years  hence  ?  There 
it  is  again  !     God  help  me  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  growled  Thurnall  to  himself.  "  I  'd  sooner 
have  lost  a  dozen  of  these  herring-hogs,  whom  nobody 
misses,  and  who  are  well  out  of  their  life-scrape  ;  but  the 
parson,  just  as  he  was  making  a  man  I  " 

There  is  no  use  in  complaints.  In  half  an  hour  Frank  is 
BCieaming  like  a  woman,  though  he  has  bitten  his  tougue 
half  through  to  stop  his  screams. 


CHAPTEB,  XVIII. 

THE   BLACK    HOUND. 

Pah  !  Let  us  escape  anywhere  for  a  breath  of  fiesh  air, 
for  even  the  scent  of  a  clean  turf.  We  have  been  watching 
saints  and  martyrs  —  perhaps  not  long  enough  for  the  good 
of  our  souls,  but  surely  too  long  for  the  comfort  of  our 
bodies.  Let  us  away  up  the  valley,  where  we  shall  find,  if 
not  indeed  a  fresh  healthful  breeze  (for  the  drought  lasts  on), 
at  least  a  cool  refreshing  down-draught  from  Carcarrow  Moor 
before  the  sun  gets  up.  It  is  just  half-past  four  o'clock,  on 
a  glorious  August  morning.  We  shall  have  three  hours  at 
least  before  the  heavens  become  one  great  Dutch-oven 
again. 

We  shall  have  good  company,  too,  in  our  walk  ;  for  here 
comes  Campbell  fresh  from  his  morning's  swim,  swinging  up 
the  silent  street  toward  Frank  Headley's  lodging. 

He  stops,  and  tosses  a  pebble  against  the  window-pane. 
In  a  minute  or  two  Thurnall  opens  the  street-door  and  slips 
out  to  him. 

"  Ah,  major  !  Overslept  myself  at  last ;  that  sofa  is  won- 
derfully comfortable.  No  time  to  go  down  and  bathe.  I  'U 
get  my  header  somewhere  up  the  stream." 

"How  is  he?" 

"  He  ?  sleeping  like  a  babe,  and  getting  well  as  fast  as 
his  soul  will  allow  his  body.  He  has  something  on  his 
mind.  Xotliing  to  be  ashamed  of,  though,  I  will  warrant ; 
for  a  purer,  i.obler  fellow  I  never  met." 

"  When  can  we  move  him  ?  " 

"  0,  to-morrow,  if  he  will  agree.  You  may  all  depart  and 
leave  me  and  the  government  man  to  make  out  the  returns 
of  killed  and  wounded.  We  shall  have  no  more  cholera. 
Eight  days  without  a  new  case.  We  shall  do  now.  I  'm 
glad  you  are  coming  up  with  us." 

"  I  will  just  see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  then  go  back 
and  get  Headley's  breakfast." 

" No,  no  1  you  mustn't,  sir ;  you  want  a  day's  play." 

^339) 


340  THE   BLACK    HOUND. 

"Not  half  as  much  as  you.  And  I  am  in  no  hunting 
mood  just  now.  Do  you  take  your  fill  of  the  woods  and  the 
streams,  and  let  me  see  to  our  patient.  I  suppose  you  will 
he  back  by  noon  ?  " 

"  Certainly."  And  the  two  swing  up  the  street,  and  out 
of  the  town,  along  the  vale  toward  Trebooze. 

For  Trebooze  of  Trebooze  has  invited  them,  and  Lord 
Scoutbush,  and  certain  others,  to  come  out  otter-huuting ; 
and  otter-hunting  they  will  go. 

Trebooze  has  been  sorely  exercised,  during  the  last  fort- 
night, between  fear  of  the  cholera  and  desire  of  calling  upon 
Lord  Scoutbush  —  "as  I  ought  to  do,  of  course,  as  one  of 
the  gentry  round  ;  he  's  a  Whig,  of  course,  and  no  more  to 
me  than  anybodj^  else  ;  but  one  don't  like  to  let  politics 
interfere  ;  "  by  which  Trebooze  glosses  over  to  himself  and 
friends  the  deep  flunkeydom  with  which  he  lusteth  after  a 
live  lord's  acquaintance,  and  one  especially  in  whom  he 
hopes  to  find  even  such  a  one  as  himself.  ..."  Good  fellow, 
I  hear  he  is,  too,  —  good  sportsman,  smokes  like  a  chim- 
ney," and  so  forth. 

So  at  last,  when  the  cholera  has  all  but  disappeared,  he 
comes  down  to  Penal va,  and  introduces  himself,  half  swag- 
gering, half  servile  ;  begins  by  a  string  of  apologies  for  not 
having  called  before,  —  "  Mrs.  Trebooze  so  afraid  of  infec- 
tion, you  see,  my  lord,"  —  which  is  a  lie  ;  then  blunders  out 
a  few  fulsome  compliments  to  Scoutbush's  courage  in  stag- 
ing ;  then  takes  heart  at  a  little  joke  of  Scoutbush's,  and 
tries  the  free-and-easy  style  ;  fingers  his  lordship's  high- 
priced  Iludsons,  and  gives  a  broad  hint  that  he  would  like 
to  smoke  one  on  the  spot ;  which  hint  is  not  taken,  any 
more  than  the  bet  of  a  "  pony,"  which  he  oficrs  five  minutes 
afterwards,  that  he  will  jump  his  Irish  mare  in  and  out  of 
Aberalva  pound;  is  utterly  "thrown  on  his  haunches"  (as 
he  informs  his  friend  Mr.  Creed  afterwards),  by  Scoutbush's 
praise  of  Tom  Thurnall,  as  an  "  invaluable  man,  a  treasure 
in  sucii  an  eut-or-thc-way  place,  and  really  better  company 
than  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  hundred;  "  recovers  himself 
again  when  Scoutbush  asks  after  his  otter-hounds,  of  which 
lie  has  heard  much  praise  from  old  Tardrew  ;  and  launches 
out  once  more  into  sporting  conversation  of  that  graceful 
and  lofty  stamp  which  may  be  perused  and  perpended  in  the 
pages  of  "  Ilandley  Cross,"  and  "Mr.  Sponge's  Sporting 
Tour,"  books  painfully  true  to  that  uglier  and  baser  side  of 
sporting  life,  which  their  clever  author  has  chosen  so  wilfully 
to  portray. 


THE   BLACK   HOUND.  341 

So,  at  least,  said  Scoutbush  to  himself,  when  his  visitor 
Lad  departed. 

"He's  just  like  a  pa^e  out  of  Spong-e's  Tour,  though 
he  's  not  half  as  good  a  fellow  as  Sponge  liimself ;  for  Sponge 
knew  he  was  a  snob,  and  lived  up  to  his  calling  honestly  ; 
but  this  fellow  wants  all  the  while  to  play  at  being  a  gentle- 
man 5  and  —  Ugh!  how  the  fellow  smelt  of  brandy,  and 
worse  !  His  hand,  too,  shook  as  if  he  had  the  palsy,  and  he 
chattered  and  fidgeted  like  a  man  with  St.  Vitus's  dance." 

"Did  he,  my  lord?"  quoth  Tom  Thurnall,  when  he 
heard  the  same,  in  a  very  meaning  tone. 

And  Trebooze,  "for  his  part,  couldn't  make  out  that 
lord  —  uncommonly  agreeable,  and  easy,  and  all  that;  but 
shoves  a  fellow  off,  and  sets  him  down  somehow,  and  in 
such  a  *  *  *  civil  way,  that  you  don't  know  where  to  have 
him." 

However,  Trebooze  departed  in  high  spirits :  for  Lord 
Scoutbush  has  deigned  to  say  that  he  will  be  delighted  to 
see  the  otter-hounds  work  any  morning  that  Trebooze  likes, 
and  an3'how  —  no  time  too  early  for  him.  "He  will  bring 
his  friend  Major  Campbell  ?  " 

"  By  all  means." 
,  "  Expect  two  or  three  sporting  gentlemen  from  the  neigh' 
borhood  too.     Regular  good  ones,  my  lord  —  though  they 
are  county  bucks  —  very  much  honored  to  make  your  lord- 
ship's acquaintance." 

Scoutbush  expresses  himself  equally  honored  by  making 
their  acquaintance,  in  a  tone  of  bland  simplicity  which 
utterly  puzzles  Trebooze,  who  goes  a  step  further. 

"  Your  lordship  '11  honor  us  by  taking  pot-luck  after- 
wards. Can't  show  you  French  cookery,  you  know,  and 
your  soufifleys  and  glacys,  and  all  that.  Honest  saddle  o' 
mutton,  and  the  grounds  of  old  port.  My  father  laid  it 
down,  and  I  take  it  up,  eh  ?  "  And  Trebooze  gave  a  wink 
and  a  nudge  of  his  elbow,  meaning  to  be  witty. 

His  lordship  was  exceedingly  sorry  ;  it  was  the  most 
unfortunate  accident  ;  but  he  had  the  most  particular 
engagement  that  very  afternoon,  and  must  return  early 
from  the  otter-hunt,  and  probably  sail  the  next  day  for 
Wales.  "  But,"  says  the  little  man,  who  knows  all  about 
Trebooze's  household,  "  I  shall  not  fail  to  do  myself  the 
honor  of  calling  on  Mrs.  Trebooze,  and  expressing  my 
regret,"  &c. 

So  to  the  otter-hunt  is  Scoutbush  gone,  and  Campbell 
and  Thurnall  after  him  ;  for  Trebooze  has  said  to  himself, 
29* 


342  THE   BLACK   HOUND. 

"Must  ask  that  blackguard  of  a  doctor  —  hang  him!  1 
wioh  he  were  an  otter  himself;  but  if  he's  so  thick  with 
iiis  lordship  it  won't  do  to  quarrel."  For,  indeed,  Thuri.all 
might  tell  tales.  So  Trebuoze  swallows  his  spite  and 
shame,  —  as  do  many  folks  who  call  themselves  his  betters, 
when  they  have  to  deal  with  a  great  man's  hanger-on, — 
and  semis  down  a  note  to  Tom  : 

"  jMr.  Trebooze  requests  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Thurnall's 
company  with  his  hounds  at  ,  .  .  ." 

And  Tom  accepts  —  why  not  ?  and  chats  with  Campbell, 
as  they  go,  on  many  things  ;  and  among  other  things  on 
this,  — 

"  By  the  by,"  said  he,  "  I  got  an  hour's  shore-work 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  refreshing  enough  it  was.  And  I 
got  a  prize  too,  —  the  sucking  barnacle  which  you  asked 
for  ;  I  was  certain  I  should  get  one  or  two,  if  I  could  have 
a  look  at  the  pools  this  week.  Jolly  little  dog  !  he  was 
paddling  and  spinning  about  last  night,  and  enjoying  him- 
self, '  ere  age  with  creeping  '  —  what  is  it  ?  —  '  hath  clawed 
him  in  his  clutch.'  That  fellow's  destiny  is  not  a  hopeful 
analogy  for  you,  sir,  who  believe  that  we  shall  rise  after 
we  die  into  some  higher  and  freer  state." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  which  is  better  off,  the  free  swimming  larva, 
or  the  perfect  cirrhipod,  rooted  forever  motionless  to  the 
rock  ?  " 

"  Which  is  better  off,  the  roving  young  fellow  who  is 
sowing  his  wild  oats,  or  the  man  who  has  settled  down, 
and  become  a  respectable  landowner,  with  a  good  house 
over  his  head  ?  " 

"  And  begun  to  propagate  his  species  ?  Well,  you  have 
me  there,  sir,  as  far  as  this  life  is  concerned  ;  but  you  will 
confess  that  the  barnacle's  history  proves  that  all  crawling 
grubs  don't  turn  into  butterflies." 

"  I  dare  say  the  barnacle  turns  into  what  is  best  for  him  ; 
at  all  events  what  he  deserves.  That  rule  of  yours  will 
apply  to  him,  to  whomsoever  it  will  not." 

"  And  so  does  penance  for  the  sins  of  his  youth,  as  some 
of  us  are  to  do  in  the  next  world  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  yes  ;  perhaps  no  ;  perhaps  neither." 

"  Do  you  speak  of  us,  or  the  barnacle  ?  " 

''Of  both." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that ;  for,  on  the  popular  notion  of  out 
being  punished  a  million  years  hence  for  what  we  did  when 


TflE   BLACK   HOUND.  343 

we  wen)  lads,  I  never  could  see  anything  but  a  misery  and 
injustice  in  our  having  come  into  the  world  at  all." 

"  I  can,"  said  the  majur  quietly. 

"  Of  course  I  meant  nothing  rude  ;  but  I  had  to  buy  my 
experience,  and  paid  for  it  dearly  enough  in  folly." 

"  So  had  I  to  buymine." 

"  Then  why  be  punished  over  and  above  ?  Why  have  to 
pay  for  the  folly,  which  was  itself  only  the  necessary  price 
of  experience  ?  " 

"For  being,  perhaps,  so  foolish  as  not  to  use  the  expe- 
rience after  it  has  cost  you  so  dear." 

"  And  will  punishment  cure  me  of  the  foolishness  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  yourself  If  it  does,  it  must  needs  be 
BO  much  the  better  for  you.  But  perhaps  you  will  not  be 
punished,  but  forgiven." 

"Let  oflF?  That  would  be  a  very  bad  thing  for  me, 
unless  I  become  a  very  different  man  from  what  I  have 
been  as  yet.  I  am  always  right  glad  now  to  get  a  fall 
whenever  I  make  a  stumble.  1  should  have  gone  to  sleep 
in  my  tracks  long  ago  else,  as  one  used  to  do  in  the 
back-woods  on  a  long  elk-hunt." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  become  a  very  different  man." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  for  that,  even  if  it  were  possible." 

"  Why  ?     Do  you  consider  yourself  perfect  ?  " 

"  No  .  .  .  But,  somehow,  Thomas  Thurnall  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  the  first  I  ever  had  ;  and  I  should  be  sorrv 
to  lose  his  company." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  fear  doing  so.  You  have  seen 
an  insect  go  through  strange  metamorphoses,  and  yet 
remain  the  same  individual  ;  why  should  not  you  and  I  do 
so  likewise  ?  " 

"  Well?" 

"Well — there  are  some  points  about  you,  I  suppose, 
which  you  would  not  be  sorry  to  have  altered  ?  " 

"  A  few,"  quoth  Tom,  laughing.  "  I  do  not  consider 
myself  quite  perfect  yet." 

"  What  if  those  points  were  not  really  any  part  of  your 
character,  but  mere  excrescences  of  disease ;  or,  if  that  be 
too  degrading  a  notion,  mere  scars  of  old  wounds,  and  ol 
the  wear  and  tear  of  life  :  and  what  if,  in  some  future  life, 
all  those  disappeared,  and  the  true  Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall, 
pure  and  simple,  were  alone  left  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  very  hopeful  notion.  Only,  my  dear  sir,  one  ia 
Huite  self-conceited  enough  in  this  imperfect  state      What 


344  THE   BLACK    HOUND. 

intolerable  coxcombs  we  should  all  be  if  we  were  perfect, 
and  could  sit  adtniring^  ourselves  for  ever  and  ever  !  " 

"  But  what  if  that  self-conceit  and  self-dependence  were 
the  very  root  of  all  the  disease,  the  cause  of  all  the  scars, 
the  very  thing' wiiich  will  have  to  be  g"ot  rid  of,  before  oui 
true  character  and  true  manhood  can  be  developed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  understand.  Faith  and  humility  ....  You  will 
forgive  me,  Major  Campbell.  1  shall  learn  to  respect  those 
virtues  when  good  people  have  defined  them  a  little  more 
exactly,  and  can  show  me  somewhat  more  clearly  in  what 
faith  ditters  from  superstition,  and  humility  from  hypocrisy." 

"  I  do  not  think  any  man  will  ever  define  them  for  you. 
But  you  ma}'^  go  through  a  course  of  experiences,  more 
severe,  probal)ly,  than  pleasant,  which  may  enable  you  at 
last  to  define  them  for  yourself." 

"  Have  you  defined  them  ?  "  asked  Tom  bluntly,  glancing 
round  at  his  companion. 

"  Faith  ?  —  Yes,  I  trust.     Humility  ?  —  No,  I  fear." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  your  definition  of  the  former,  at 
least." 

"  Did  I  not  say  that  you  must  discover  it  for  yourself?  " 

"  Yes.  Well.  When  the  lesson  comes,  if  it  does  come, 
I  suppose  it  will  come  in  some  learnable  shape  ;  and  till 
then  I  must  jtist  shift  for  myself — and  if  self-dependence 
be  a  punishable  sin,  I  shall,  at  all  events,  have  plenty  of 
company  whithersoever  I  go.  There  is  Lord  Scoutbush 
and  Trebooze  !  " 

Why  did  not  Campbell  speak  his  mind  more  clearly  to 
Thurnall  ? 

Because  he  knew  that  with  such  men  words  are  of  little 
avail.  The  disease  was  entrenched  too  strongly  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  man's  being.  It  seemed  at  moments  as  if  all 
his  strange  adventures  and  hairbreadth  escapes  had  been 
sent  to  do  him  harm,  and  not  good  ;  to  pamper  and  harden 
his  self-confidence,  not  to  crush  it.  Therefore  Campbell 
seldom  argued  with  him  ;  but  he  prayed  for  him  often  ;  for 
he  had  begun,  as  all  did  who  saw  much  of  Tom  Thurnall,  to 
admire  and  respect  him,  in  spite  of  all  his  faults. 

And  now,  turning  through  a  woodland  path,  they  descend 
toward  the  river,  till  they  can  hear  voices  below  them  ; 
Scoutbush  laughing  quietly,  Trebooze  laying  down  the  law 
at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"  IIow  noisy  the  fellow  is,  and  h  )w  he  is  hopping 
about !  "  says  Campbell. 

"  No  wonder  ;  he  has  been  soaking,  I  hear,  for  the  last 


THE   BLACK   HOUND.  345 

fortnight,  with  some  worthy  compeers,  by  way  of  keeping 
off  cbolera.     I  must  have  my  eye  on  him  to-day." 

Scrambling  down  through  the  brushwood,  they  found 
themselves  in  such  a  scene  as  Creswick  alone  knows  how  to 
paint ;  though  one  element  of  beauty,  which  Creswick  uses 
full  well,  was  wanting;  and  the  whole  place  was  seen,  not 
by  slant  sun-rays,  gleaming  through  the  boughs,  and  dap- 
pling all  the  pebbles  with  a  lacework  of  leaf  shadows,  but 
in  the  uniform  and  sober  gray  of  dawn. 

A  broad  bed  of  sliingle,  looking  just  now  more  like  an  ill- 
made  turnpike  road  than  the  bed  of  Alva  stream  ;  above  it, 
a  long  shallow  pool,  which  showed  every  stone  through  the 
transparent  water ;  on  the  right,  a  craggy  bank,  bedded 
with  deep  wood  sedge  and  orange-tipped  king  ferns,  clus- 
tering beneath  sallow  and  maple  bushes  already  tinged  with 
gold  ;  on  the  left,  a  long  bar  of  gravel,  covered  with  giant 
"butterbur"  leaves;  in  and  out  of  which  the  hounds  are 
brushing  —  beautiful  black-and-tan  dogs,  of  which  poor 
Trebooze  may  be  pardonably  proud  ;  wiiile  round  the  bur- 
leat-bed  dances  a  rough  white  Irish  terrier,  seeming,  by  his 
frantic  self-importance,  to  consider  himself  the  master  of  the 
hounds. 

Scoutbush  is  standing  with  Trebooze  beyond  the  bar, 
upon  a  little  lawn  set  thick  with  alders.  Trebooze  is  fuss- 
ing and  fidgeting  about,  wiping  his  forehead  perpetually  ; 
telling  everybody  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  not  to  inter- 
fere ;  then  catching  hold  of  Scoutbush's  button  to  chatter  in 
his  face  ;  then  starting  aside  to  put  some  part  of  his  dress 
to  rights.  His  usual  lazy  drawl  is  exchanged  for  foolish 
excitement.  Two  or  three  more  gentlemen,  tired  of  Tre- 
booze's  absurdities,  are  scrambling  over  the  rocks  above,  in 
search  of  spraints.  Old  Tardrew  waddles  stooping  along 
the  line  where  grass  and  shingle  meet,  his  bull-dog  visage 
bent  to  his  very  knees. 

"  Tardrew  out  hunting  ?  "  says  Campbell.  "  Why,  it  is 
but  a  week  since  his  daughter  was  buried  !  " 

"And  why  not  ?  I  like  him  better  for  it.  Would  he 
bring  her  back  again  by  throwing  away  a  good  day's  sport  ? 
Better  turn  out,  as  he  has  done,  and  forget  his  feelings,  if 
he  has  any." 

"  lie  has  feeling  enough,  don't  doubt.  But  you  are  right. 
There  is  something  very  characteristic  in  the  way  in  which 
the  English  countryman  never  shows  grief,  never  lets  it 
Interfere  with  business  —  even  with  pleasure." 


346  THE  BLACK  HOUND. 

"Ilillol  Mr.  Trebooze  1  "  says  the  old  fellow,  looking 
Dp.     "Ilereitis!" 

"Spraint?  Spraint  ?  Spraint?  Where?  Eh— what?" 
cries  Trebooze. 

"  No  ;  but  wliat  's  as  good  ;  here  on  this  alder  stump,  not 
an  hour  old.  1  thought  they  beauties  starns  weren't  ilcai- 
ishing  for  nowt." 

"  llere  !  Here!  Here!  Here  I  Musical,  Musical !  Sweet- 
lips  !     Get  out  of  the  way  !  "  —  and  Trebooze  runs  down. 

Musical  examines,  throws  her  nose  into  the  air,  and  an- 
swers by  the  rich,  bell-like  note  of  the  true  otter-hound  ;  and 
all  the  woodlands  ring  as  the  pack  dashes  down  the  shingle 
to  her  call. 

"Over!"  shouts  Tom.  "Here's  the  fresh  spraint  our 
Bide !  " 

Through  the  water  splash  squire,  viscount,  steward,  and 
hounds,  to  the  horror  of  a  shoal  of  par,  the  only  visible 
tenants  of  a  pool,  which,  after  a  shower  of  rain,  would  be 
alive  with  trout.  AV^here  those  trout  are  in  the  mean  while 
is  a  mystery  yet  unsolved. 

Over  dances  the  little  terrier,  yapping  furiously,  and  ex- 
pending his  superfluous  energy  by  snapping  right  and  left 
at  the  par. 

"  Hark  to  Musical !  hark  to  Sweetlips  !  Down  the 
stream  ?  —  No  I  the  old  girl  has  it ;  right  up  the  bank  !  " 

"  How  do,  doctor  ?  How  do,  Major  Campbell  ?  For- 
ward !  Forward  !  Forward  !  "  shouts  Trebooze,  glad  to 
escape  a  longer  parlej',  as,  with  spear  in  his  left  hand,  he 
clutches  at  the  over-hanging  boughs  with  his  right,  and 
swings  himself  up,  with  Peter,  the  huntsman,  after  him. 
Tom  follows  him  ;  and  why  ? 

Because  he  does  not  like  his  looks.  That  bull-eye  is  red, 
and  almost  bursting  ;  his  cheeks  are  flushed,  his  lips  blue, 
his  hand  shakes  ;  and  Tom's  quick  eye  has  already  re- 
marked, fron)  a  distance,  over  and  above  his  new  fussiness, 
a  sudden  shudder,  a  quick,  half-frightened  glance  behind 
him  ;  and  perceived,  too,  that  the  moment  Musical  gave 
tongue,  he  put  the  spirit-flask  to  his  mouth. 

Away  go  the  hounds  at  sc(n-e  through  tangled  cover, 
their  merry  peul  ringing  from  brake  and  briar,  clashing 
against  the  rocks,  moaning  musically  away  through  distant 
glens  aloft. 

Scoutbush  and  Tardrew  "take  down"  the  river  bed,  fol- 
lowed by  Campbell.  It  is  in  his  way  home ;  and  though 
the  major  has  stuck  many  a  pig,  shot  many  a  gaur,  rhinoc- 


THE   BLACK   HOUND.  347 

eroB,  and  elephant,  he  disdains  not,  like  a  true  sportsman^ 
the  less  dangerous  but  more  scientific  excitement  of  an 
ottei'-hunt. 

"Hark  to  the  merrj^  merry  Christchurch  bells!  She's 
up  by  this  time;  —  that  don't  sound  like  a  drag  now!" 
cries  Tom,  bursting  desperately,  with  elbow-guarded  visage, 
through  the  tangled  scrub.  "What's  the  matter,  Tre- 
booze  ?  No,  thanks  !  '  Modest  quenchers  '  won't  improve 
the  wind  just  now." 

For  Trebooze  has  halted,  panting  and  bathed  in  perspira- 
tion ;  has  been  at  the  brandy-flask  again  ;  and  now  ofi'ers 
Tom  a  "  quencher,"  as  he  calls  it. 

"As  you  like,"  says  Treebooze  sulkily,  having  meant  it 
as  a  token  of  reconciliation,  and  pushes  on. 

They  are  now  upon  a  little  open  meadow,  girdled  by 
green  walls  of  wood  ;  and  along  the  river-bank  the  hounds 
are  fairly  racing.  Tom  and  Peter  hold  on  ;  Trebooze 
slackens. 

"Your  master  don't  look  right  this  morning,  Peter." 

Peter  lifts  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  to  signify  the  habit  of 
drinking ;  and  then  shakes  it  in  a  melancholy  fashion,  to 
signify  that  the  said  habit  has  reached  a  lamentable  and 
desperate  point. 

Tom  looks  back.  Trebooze  has  pulled  up,  and  is  walk- 
ing, wiping  still  at  his  face.  The  hounds  have  overrun  the 
scent,  and  are  back  again,  flemishing  about  the  plashed 
fence  on  the  river  brink. 

"Over!  over!  over!"  shouts  Peter,  tumbling  over  the 
fence  into  the  stream,  and  staggering  across. 

Trebooze  comes  up  to  it,  tries  to  scramble  over,  muttera 
something,  and  sits  down  astride  of  a  bough. 

"  You  are  not  well,  squire  ?  " 

"  Well  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life  !  only  a  little  sick  —  have 
been  several  times  lately  ;  could  n't  sleep  either —  have  n't 
slept  an  hour  this  week.     Don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  What  ducks  of  hounds  those  are  !  "  says  Tom,  trying, 
for  ulterior  purposes,  to  ingratiate  himself.  "  How  they 
are  working  there  all  by  themselves,  like  so  many  human 
beingB  !     Perfect !  —  " 

"  Yes —  don't  want  us  —  may  as  well  sit  here  a  minute 
Awfully  hot,  eh  ?  What  a  splendid  creature  that  Miss  St 
Just  is  !     I  say,  Peter  !  " 

'Yes,  sir,"  shouts  Peter,  from  the  other  side. 

"  Those  hounds  an't  right  I  "  with  an  oath. 

**  Not  right,  sir  ?  " 


31:8  THE   BLACK   HOUND. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  ?  —  five  couple  and  a  half —  no,  five 
couple  —  no,  six.  Hang  it  1  I  can't  see,  I  think!  Ho^ 
many  lionnds  did  I  tell  you  to  bring  out  ?  " 

"  Five  couple,  sir." 

"  Then  *  *  *  *  wliy  did  you  bring  out  that  other  ?  " 

"  Wliich  other  ?  "  shouts  Peter,  wliile  Thurnall  eyes  Tre- 
booze  keenly. 

"  Why,  that !  He  's  none  o'  mine  1  Nasty  black  cur,  how 
did  he  get  here  ?  " 

"  Where  ?     There  's  never  no  cur  here  !  " 

"You  lie,  you  oaf — no  —  why — doctor — How  many 
hounds  are  there  here  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see,"  says  Tom,  "  among  those  bushes." 

"Can't  see,  eh?  Why  don't  those  brutes  hit  it  off?" 
says  Trebooze,  drawling,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  the  matter, 
and,  lounging  over  the  fence,  drops  into  the  stream,  followed 
by  Tom,  and  wades  across. 

The  hounds  are  all  round  him,  and  he  is  couraging  them 
on,  fussing  again  more  than  ever  ;  but  without  success. 

"  Gone  to  holt  somewhere  here,"  says  Peter. 

"***!"  cries  Trebooze,  looking  round  with  a  sudden 
ehudder,  and  face  of  terror.  "  There  's  that  black  brute 
again  !  there,  behind  me  !  Hang  it,  he  '11  bite  me  next!  " 
and  he  caught  up  his  leg,  and  struck  behind  him  with  his 
spear. 

There  was  no  dog  there. 

Peter  was  about  to  speak  ;  but  Tom  silenced  him  by  a 
look,  and  shouted,  — 

"  Here  we  are  I     Gone  to  holt  in  this  alder  root !  " 

"  Now  then,  little  Carlingford  !  Out  of  the  way,  pup- 
pies 1  "  cries  Trebooze,  righted  again  for  the  moment  by  the 
excitement,  and  thrusting  the  hounds  right  and  left,  he 
stoops  down  to  put  in  the  little  terrier. 

Suddenly  he  springs  up,  with  something  like  a  scream, 
and  then  bursts  out  on  Peter  with  a  volley  of  oaths. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  to  drive  that  cur  away  ?  " 

"Which  cur,  sir  ?"  cries  Peter,  trembling  and  utterly 
confounded. 

"That  cur!  *  *  *  Can't  I  believe  my  own  eyes?  Will 
you  toll  me  that  the  beggar  did  n't  bolt  between  my  lega 
this  moment,  and  went  into  the  hole  before  the  terrier?" 

Neither  answered.  Peter  from  utter  astonishment ;  Tom 
because  he  saw  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Don't  stoop,  squire.  You  '11  make  the  blood  fly  to  youi 
bead.     Let  me  —  " 


THE    BLACK    HOUND.  349 

Bat  Trebooze  thrust  him  back  with  curses. 

"I'll  have  the  brute  out,  and  send  the  spear  through 
him  !  "  and,  flinging'  himself  on  his  knees  again,  Trebooze 
began  tearing  madly  at  the  roots  and  stones,  shouting  to 
the  half-buried  terrier  to  tear  the  intruder. 

Peter  looked  at  Tom,  and  then  wrung  his  hands  in  des- 
pair. 

"  Dirty  work  —  beastly  work  !  "  muttered  Trebooze. 
"  Nothing  but  slugs  and  evats  !  —  Toads,  too,  —  hang  the 
toads  !  What  a  plague  brings  all  this  vermin  ?  Curse  it !  " 
shrieked  he,  springing  back,  "  there  's  an  adder  I  and  he  's 
gone  up  my  sleeve  I  Help  me  !  Doctor  !  Thurnall !  or  I  'm 
a  dead  man  I  " 

Tom  caught  the  arm,  thrust  his  hand  up  the  sleeve,  and 
seemed  to  snatch  out  the  snake,  and  hurl  it  back  into  the 
river. 

"  All  right  now  !  —  a  near  chance,  though  1  " 

Peter  stood  open-mouthed. 

"  I  never  saw  no  snake  !  "  cried  he. 

Tom  caught  him  a  buffet  which  sent  him  reeling.  "  Look 
after  your  hounds,  you  blind  ass  !  IIow  are  you  now,  Tre- 
booze ?  "  And  he  caught  the  squire  round  the  waist,  for 
he  was  reeling. 

"  The  world !  The  world  upside  down !  rocking  and 
Bwinging !  Who  's  put  me  feet  upwards,  like  a  fly  on  a 
ceiling  !  I  'm  falling  off,  falling  off  into  the  clouds  —  into 
hell-fire  —  Hold  me  !  —  Toads  and  adders  !  and  wasps  —  to 
go  to  holt  in  a  wasp's  nest !  Drive  'em  away,  — get  me  a 
green  bough  !     I  shall  be  stung  to  death  !  " 

And,  tearing  off  a  green  bough,  the  wretched  man  rushed 
into  the  river,  beating  wildly  right  and  left  at  his  fancied 
tormentors. 

"What  is  it?"  cry  Campbell  and  Scoutbush,  who  have 
run  up  breathless. 

"  Delirium  tremens.  Campbell,  get  home  as  fast  as  you 
can,  and  send  me  up  a  bottle  of  morphine.  Peter,  take  the 
hounds  home.     I  must  go  after  him." 

"  I  '11  go  home  with  Campbell,  and  send  the  bottle  up  by 
a  man  and  horse,"  cries  Scoutbush  ;  and  away  the  two  trot, 
at  a  gallant  pace,  for  a  cross-country  run  home. 

"  Mr.  Tardrew,  come  with  me,  there  's  a  good  man  !  I 
shall  want  help." 

Tardrew  made  no  reply,  but  dashed  through  the  river  at 
his  heels. 

Trebooze  had  already  climbed  the  plashed  fence,  and  was 
30 


350  THE   BLACK   HOUND. 

nimiing^  wildly  across  the  meadow.  Tom  dry,g-g'ed  Tardre^iy 
up  it  alter  him. 

"  Thank  'ee,  sir,"  but  nothing  more.  The  two  had  not 
met  since  the  cholera. 

Trebooze  fell,  and  lay  rolling,  trying  in  vain  to  shield  his 
face  from  the  phantom  wasps. 

They  lifted  him  up  and  spoke  gently  to  him. 

"  Better  get  home  to  Mrs.  Trebooze,  sir,"  said  Tardrew, 
with  as  much  tenderness  as  his  gruff  voice  could  convey. 

"  Yes,  home  !  home  to  Molly  !  My  ]\[olly  's  always  kind. 
She  won't  let  me  be  eaten  up  alive.     Molly,  Molly  !  " 

And,  shrieking  for  his  wife,  the  wretched  man  started  ti> 
run  again. 

"  Molly,  I  'm  in  hell !  Only  help  me  1  you  're  always  right  1 
only  forgive  me  !  and  I  '11  never,  never  again  —  " 

And  then  came  out  hideous  confessions  ;  then  fresh  hide- 
ous delusions. 

3i«  5(s  •)»  "I*  <F 

Three  weary  up-hill  miles  lay  between  them  and  the  house ; 
but  home  they  got  at  last. 

Trebooze  dashed  at  the  house-door,  tore  it  open  ;  slammed 
and  bolted  it  behind  him,  to  shut  out  the  pursuing  fiends. 

"Quick,  round  by  the  back-door!"  said  Tom,  who  had 
not  opposed  him,  for  fear  of  making  him  furious,  but  dreaded 
some  tragedy  if  he  were  left  alone. 

But  his  fear  was  needless.  Trebooze  looked  into  the 
breakfast-room.  It  was  empty ;  she  was  not  out  of  bed 
yet.  He  rushed  up  stairs  into  her  bed-room,  shrieking  her 
name.  She  leaped  up  to  meet  him  ;  and  the  poor  wretch 
buried  his  head  in  that  faithful  bosom,  screaming  to  her  to 
save  him  from  he  knew  not  what. 

She  put  her  arms  round  him,  soothed  him,  wept  over  him 
sacred  tears.  "  My  William  !  my  own  William  I  Yes,  I 
will  take  care  of  you  1  Nothing  shall  hurt  you,  —  my  own, 
own  !  " 

Vain,  drunken,  brutal,  unfaithful.  Yes  ;  but  her  husband 
still. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  she  cried,  with  her  usual  fierceness,  ter- 
rified for  his  character,  not  terrified  for  herself. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall,  madam.  Have  you  any  laudanum  in  the 
house  ? " 

"  Yes,  here  I  0,  come  in  1  Thank  God  you  are  come  I 
What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 


THE   BLACK    HOUND.  351 

Tom  looked  for  the  laudanum  bottle,  and  poured  out  a 
heavy  dose. 

"Make  him  take  that,  madam,  and  put  him  to  bed.  1 
will  wait  down  stairs  a  while." 

"  Thurnall,  Thurnall !  "  calls  Trebooze  ;  "  don't  leave  me, 
old  fellow  !  you  are  a  good  fellow.  I  say,  forgive  and  forget. 
Don't  leave  me  I  Only  don't  leave  me,  for  the  room  is  as 
full  of  devils  as " 

3|C  5JC  IjC  ^  3JC 

An  hour  after,  Tom  and  Tardrew  were  walking  home 
together. 

"He  is  quite  quiet  now,  and  fast  asleep." 

"  Will  he  mend,  sir  ?  "  asks  Tardrew. 

"  Of  course  he  will ;  and  perhaps  in  more  ways  than  one. 
Best  thing  that  could  have  happened, — will  bring  him  to 
his  senses,  and  he  '11  start  fresh." 

"  We  '11  hope  so,  —  he  's  been  mad,  1  think,  ever  since  he 
heard  of  that  cholera." 

"  So  have  others  ;  but  not  with  brandy,"  thought  Tom. 
But  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  say,  sir,"  quoth  Tardrew,  after  a  while,  "  how  's  Par- 
son Headley  ?  " 

"  Getting  well,  I  'm  happy  to  say." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,  sir.  He 's  a  good  man,  after  all ;  though 
we  did  have  our  differences.  But  he  's  a  good  man,  and 
worked  like  one." 

"He  did." 

Silence  again. 

"  Never  heard  such  beautiful  prayers,  in  all  my  life,  as  he 
made  over  my  poor  maid." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Tom.  "He  understands  his 
business  at  heart,  though  he  may  have  his  fancies." 

"  And  so  do  some  others,"  said  Tardrew,  in  a  gruff  tone, 

as  if  half  to  himself,  "who  have  no  fancies Tell  you 

what  it  is,  sir,  — you  was  right  this  time  ;  and  that 's  plain 
truth.     I  'm  sorry  to  hear  talk  of  your  going." 

"  My  good  sir,"  quoth  Tom,  "  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  go 
I  have  found  place  and  people  here  as  pleasant  as  man  could 
wish  ;  but  go  I  must." 

"  Glad  you  're  satisfied,  sir ;  wish  you  was  going  to 
stay,"  says  Tardrew.  "Seen  Miss  Harvey  this  last  day 
or  two,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  know  she  's  to  keep  her  school  ?  " 

"  I  know  it.     Nursed  my  girl  like  an  angel." 

"  Like  what  she  is,"  said  Tom. 


352  THE    BLACK    HOUND. 

"  You  said  one  true  word  once  ;  that  she  was  too  good 
for  us." 

"  For  this  world,"  said  Tom  ;  and  fell  into  a  great 
musing. 

By  those  curt  and  surly  utterances  did  Tardrew,  in  trvc. 
British  bull-dog  fashion,  express  a  repentance  too  deep  for 
words;  too  deep  for  all  confessionals,  penances,  and  emo- 
tions or  acts  of  contrition  ;  the  I'epentance  not  of  the  excit- 
able and  theatric  southern,  unstable  as  water,  even  in  his 
most  violent  remorse  ;  but  of  the  still,  deep-hearted  northern, 
whose  pride  breaks  slowly  and  silently,  but  breaks  once  for 
all ;  who  tells  to  God  what  he  will  never  tell  to  man  ;  and, 
having  told  it,  is  a  new  creature  from  that  day  forth  for- 
ever. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BEDDGELERT, 

The  pleasant  summer  voj'ag-e  is  over.  The  Araterwitch 
is  lounging  ofi"  Port  Madoc,  waiting  for  her  crew.  The  said 
crew  are  busy  on  shore  drinking  the  ladies'  healths,  with  a 
couple  of  sovereigns  which  Valencia  has  given  them,  in  her 
sister's  name  and  her  own.  The  ladies,  under  the  care  of 
Elsley,  and  the  far  more  practical  care  of  Mr.  Bowie,  are 
rattling  along  among  children,  maids,  and  boxes,  over  the 
sandy  tiats  of  the  Traeth  Mawr,  beside  the  long  reaches  of 
the  lazy  stream,  with  the  blue  surges  of  the  hills  in  front, 
and  the  silver  sea  behind.  Soon  they  begin  to  pass  wooded 
knolls,  islets  of  rock  in  the  alluvial  plain.  The  higher 
peaks  of  Siiowdon  sink  down  behind  the  lower  spurs  in 
front ;  the  plain  narrows ;  closes  in,  walled  round  with 
woodlands  clinging  to  the  steep  hill-sides  :  and,  at  last,  they 
enter  the  narrow  gorge  of  Pont-Aberglaslyn,  —  pretty 
enough,  no  doubt,  but  much  over-praised  ;  for  there  are  in 
Devon  alone  a  dozen  passes  far  grander,  both  for  form  and 
size. 

Soon   they   emerge   again    on   flat   meadows,   mountain- 
cradled  ;  and  the  grave  of  the  mythic  greyhound,  and  the 
fair  old  church,  shrouded  in  tall  trees  ;  and  last,  but  not 
least,  at  the  famous  Leek  Hotel,  where  ruleth  Mrs.  Lewis 
great  and  wise,  over  the  four  months'  Babylon  of  guides 
cars,  chambermaids,  tourists,  artists,   and  reading-parties 
camp-stools,  telescopes,  poetry-books,  blue  uglies,  red  petti- 
coats, and  parasols  of  every  hue. 

There  they  settle  down  in  the  best  rooms  in  the 'house, 
and  all  goes  as  merrily  as  it  can,  while  the  horrors  which 
they  have  left  behind  them  hang,  like  a  black  background, 
to  all  their  thoughts.  However,  both  Scoutbush  and  Camp- 
bell send  as  cheerful  reports  as  they  honestly  can  ;  and, 
gradually,  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  scenery,  and  the 
amusing  bustle  of  the  village,  make  them  forget,  perhaps^ 
a  good  deal  which  they  ought  to  have  remembered. 

30*  (353> 


354  .  BEDDGELERT. 

As  for  poor  Lucia,  no  one  will  ctiinp^ain  of  her  for  being 
happy  ;  i'or  icu-'ling-  that  she  lias  got  a  holiday,  the  first  for 
now  fnir  years,  and  trying  to  enjoy  it  to  the  utmost.  She 
has  no  household  cares.  Mr.  Bowie  manages  everything, 
and  does  so,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  honor  of  the  finiily,  on 
a  somewhat  magnilicent  scale.  The  children,  in  that  bracing 
air, are  better  than  she  has  ever  seen  them.  She  has  Valen- 
cia all  to  herself;  and  Elsley,  in  spite  of  the  dark  fmeies 
over  which  he  has  been  brooding-,  is  better  behaved,  on  the 
V,  hole,  than  usual. 

lie  has  escaped^  so  ho  considers  —  escaped  from  Camp- 
bell, above  all  from  Thurnall.  From  himself,  indeed,  ho 
has  not  escaped  ;  but  the  company  of  self  is,  on  the  whole, 
more  pleasant  to  him  than  otherwise  just  now.  For  though 
he  may  turn  up  his  nose  at  tourists  and  reading-parties,  and 
long-  lor  contemplative  solitude,  yet  there  is  a  certain  pleas- 
ure to  some  people,  and  often  strongest  in  those  who  pre- 
tend most  shyness,  in  the  "  digito  monstrari,  et  dicier,  hie 
est :  "  in  taking  for  granted  tliat  everybody  has  read  his 
poems  ;  that  everybody  is  saying  in  their  hearts,  "  There 
g-oes  Mr.  Vavasour,  the  distinguished  poet.  I  wonder 
what  he  is  writing  now  ?  I  wonder  where  he  has  been 
to-day,  and  what  he  has  been  thinking  of." 

So  Elsley  went  up  Hebog,  and  looked  over  the  glorious 
vista  of  the  vale,  over  the  twin  lakes,  and  the  ricli  sheets 
of  woodland,  with  Aran  and  Moel  Meirch,  guarding  them 
right  and  left,  and  the  graystone  glaciers  of  the  Glyder  wall- 
ing up  the  valley  miles  above.  And  they  went  up  Snow- 
don,  too,  and  saw  little  beside  fifty  fog-blinded  tourists,  five- 
and-twenty  dripping  ponies,  and  five  hundred  empty  porter- 
bottles  ;  wherefrom  they  returned,  as  do  man}',  disgusted, 
and  with  great  colds  in  their  heads.  But  most  they  loved 
to  scramble  up  the  crags  of  Dinas  Emyrs,  and  muse  over 
the  ruins  of  the  old  tower,  "  where  Merlin  taught  Vortigern 
the  courses  of  the  stars  ;  "  till  the  stars  set  and  rose  aa 
the}'  had  done  for  Merlin  and  his  pupil,  behind  the  four 
great  peaks  of  Aran,  Siabod,  Cnicht,  and  Ilebog,  which 
point  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  heavens  ;  or  to  lie  by  the 
side  of  the  boggy  spring,  which  once  was  tlie  magic  well 
of  the  magic  castle,  till  they  saw  in  fancy  the  white  dragon 
and  the  red  rise  from  its  depths  once  more,  and  fight  high 
in  the  air  the  battle  which  foretold  the  fall  of  the  Cymry  be- 
fore the  Sassenach  invader. 

One  thing,  indeed,  troubled  Elsley,  —  that  Claude  was 
his  only  companion  ;    for  Valencia  avoided  carefully   any 


BEDDGELERT.  355 

mori!  tete-jVtete  walks  with  him.  She  had  found  out  hor 
mistake,  and  devote'd  herself  now  to  Lucia.  She  had  a  fair 
excuse  enough,  for  Lucia  was  not  just  then  in  a  state  for 
rambles  and  scrambles  ;  and  of  that  Elsley  certainly  had  no 
right  to  complain  ;  so  that  he  was  forced  to  leave  them 
both  at  liome,  with  as  good  grace  as  he  could  muster,  and 
to  wander  by  himself,  scribbling  his  fancies,  while  they 
lounged  and  worked  in  the  pleasant  garden  of  the  hotel, 
with  Bowie  fetching  and  carrying  for  them  all  daylong,  and 
intimating  pretty  roundly  to  Miss  Clara  his  "  opeeenion," 
that  he  "  was  very  proud  and  thankful  of  the  office  ;  but  he 
did  think  he  had  to  do  a  great  many  things  for  Mrs. Vava- 
sour every  day  which  would  come  with  a  much  better  grace 
from  Mr.  Vavasour  himself;  and  that,  when  he  married,  he 
should  not  leave  his  wife  to  be  nursed  by  other  men." 

Which  last  words  were  spoken  with  an  ulterior  object, 
well  understood  by  the  hearer  ;  for  between  Clara  and  Bowie 
there  was  one  of  those  patient  and  honorable  attachments  so 
common  between  worthy  servants.  They  had  both  "kept 
company,"  though  only  by  letter,  for  the  most  part,  for  now 
five  years  ;  they  had  both  saved  a  fair  sum  of  money  ;  and 
Clara  might  have  married  Bowie  when  she  chose,  had  she 
not  thought  it  her  duty  to  take  care  of  her  mistress  ;  while 
Bowie  considered  himself  equally  indispensable  to  the  wel- 
fare of  that  "  puir  feckless  laddie,"  his  master. 

So  they  waited  patiently,  amusing  the  time  by  little  squab- 
bles of  jealousy,  real  or  pretended  ;  and  Bowie  was  faith- 
ful, though  Clara  was  past  thirty  now,  and  losing  her  good 
looks. 

"  So  ye  '11  see  your  lassie,  Mr.  Bowie  !  "  said  Sergeant 
MacArthur,  his  intimate,  when  he  started  for  Aberalva  that 
summer.  "I'm  thinkhig  ye 'd  better  put  her  out  of  her 
pain  soon.  Five  years  is  ower  lang  courting,  and  she  's  na 
pullet  by  now,  saving  your  pardon." 

"  Hoooo — ,"  says  Bowie;  "leave  the  green  gooseber- 
ries to  the  lads,  and  gi'  me  the  ripe  fruit,  sergeant." 

However,  he  found  love-making  in  his  own  fashion  so 
pleasant,  that,  not  content  with  carrying  Mrs.  Vavasour's 
babies  about  all  day  long,  he  had  several  times  to  be  gently 
turned  out  of  the  nursery,  where  he  wanted  to  assist  in 
washing  and  dressing  them,  on  the  ground  that  an  old  sol- 
dier could  turn  his  hand  to  anything. 

So  slipped  away  a  fortnight  and  more,  during  which 
Valencia  was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  knew  it  also  ; 
for  Claude  Mellot,   half  to  amuse  her,  and  half  to   tease 


356  BEDDGELERT. 

Elsley,  made  her  laug-h  many  a  time  by  retailing  little  say- 
ings and  doings,  in  her  praise  and  dispraise,  picked  up  from 
rich  Manchester  gentlemen,  who  would  fain  have  married 
her  without  a  penny,  and  from  strong-initideil  Mancliester 
ladies,  who  envied  her  beauty  a  little,  and  set  her  down,  of 
course,  as  an  empty-minded  worldling,  and  a  proud  aristo- 
crat. The  majority  of  the  reading-parties,  meanwhile, 
thought  a  great  deal  more  about  Valencia  than  about  their 
books.  The  Oxford  men,  it  seemed,  though  of  the  same 
mind  as  the  Cambridge  men,  in  considering  her  the  model 
of  all  perfection,  were  divided  as  to  their  method  of  testi- 
fying the  same.  Two  or  three  of  them,  who  were  given  to 
that  simpering  and  flirting  tone  with  young  ladies  to  which 
Oxford  would-be-fine  gentlemen  are  so  pitiably  prone,  hung 
about  the  inn-door  to  ogle  her  ;  contrived  always  to  be  walk- 
ing in  the  garden  when  she  was  there,  dressed  out  as  if  for 
High-street  at  four  o'clock  on  a  May  afternoon  ;  toroiented 
Claude  by  fruitless  attempts  to  get  from  him  an  introduc- 
tion, which  he  had  neither  the  right  nor  the  mind  to  give  ; 
and  at  last  (so  Bowie  told  Claude  one  night,  and  Claude 
told  the  whole  party  next  morning)  tried  to  bribe  and  flat- 
ter Valencia's  maid  into  giving  them  a  bit  of  ribbon,  or  a 
cast-off"  glove,  which  had  belonged  to  ihe  idol.  Whereon 
that  maiden,  in  virtuous  indignation,  told  Mr.  Bowie,  and 
complained,  moreover  (as  maids  are  bound  to  do  to  valets 
for  whom  they  liave  a  penchant),  of  their  having  dared  to 
compliment  her  on  her  own  good  looks  ;  by  which  act  she 
succeeded,  of  course,  in  making  Mr.  Bowie  understand  that 
other  people  still  thought  her  pretty,  if  he  did  not ;  and  also 
in  arousing  in  him  that  jealousy  which  is  often  the  best 
helpmate  of  sweet  love.  So  Mr.  Bowie  went  forth  in  his 
might  that  very  evening,  and,  finding  two  of  the  Oxford  men, 
informed  them  in  plain  Scotch,  that,  "  Gin  he  caught  them, 
or  any  ither  such  skellums,  philandering  after  his  leddies, 
or  his  leddies'  maids,  he  'd  jist  knock  their  empty  pows 
togither."  To  which  there  was  no  reply  but  silence  ;  for 
Mr.  Bowie  stood  six  feet  four  without  his  shoes,  and  had 
but  the  week  before  performed,  for  the  edification  of  the 
Cambridge  men,  who  held  him  in  high  honor,  a  few  old 
Guards'  feats  ;  such  as  cutting  in  two  at  one  sword-blow  a 
suspended  shoulder  of  mutton  ;  lifting  a  long  table  by  his 
teeth  ;  squeezing  a  quart  pewter  pot  flat  between  his  fin- 
gers ;  and  other  little  recreations  of  those  who  are  "  born 
unto  Kapha." 

But  the  Cantabs,  and  a  couple  of  gallant  Oxford  boating 


BEDDGELERT.  357 

men  who  had  fraternized  with  them,  testified  their  own  ad- 
mii-ation,  in  their  simple  honest  way,  by  putting  down  their 
pipes  whenever  they  saw  Valencia  coming,  and  just  lifting 
their  hats  when  they  met  her  close.  It  was  taking  a  liberty, 
no  doubt.  "  But  1  tell  you,  Mellot,"  said  Wynd,  as  brave 
and  pure-minded  a  fellow  as  ever  pulled  in  the  University 
eight,  "  the  Arabs,  when  they  see  such  a  creature,  sa^  , 
'  Praise  Allah  for  beautiful  women  !  '  and  quite  right ;  they 
may  remind  some  fellows  of  worse  things,  but  they  always 
remind  me  of  heaven  and  the  angels  ;  and  my  hat  goes  off 
to  her  by  instinct,  just  as  it  does  when  I  go  into  a  church." 
That  was  all ;  simple,  chivalrous  admiration,  and  delight 
in  her  loveliness,  as  in  that  of  a  lake,  or  a  mountain  sun- 
set ;  but  nothing  more.  The  good  fellows  had  no  time, 
indeed,  to  fancy  themselves  in  love  with  her,  or  her  with 
them,  for  every  day  was  too  short  for  them  ;  what  with 
reading  all  the  morning,  and  starting  out  in  the  afternoon 
in  strange  garments  (which  became  shabbier  and  more 
ragged  very  rapidly  as  the  weeks  slipped  on)  upon  all  man- 
ner of  desperate  errands  ;  walking  unheard-of  distances, 
and  losing  their  way  upon  the  mountains  :  scrambling  cliffs, 
and  now  and  then  falling  down  them  ;  camping  all  night 
bj'  unpronounceable  lakes,  in  the  hope  of  catching  myth- 
ical trout ;  trying  in  all  ways  how  hungry,  thirsty,  dirty, 
and  tired  a  man  could  make  himself,  and  how  far  he  could  go 
without  breaking  his  neck,  —  any  approach  to  which  catas- 
trophe was  hailed  (as  were  all  other  mishaps)  as  "  all  in  the 
day's  work,"  and  "  the  finest  fun  in  the  world,"  by  that 
unconquerable  English  "  lebensgliickseligkeit,"  which  is 
a  perpetual  wonder  to  our  sober  German  cousins.  Ah, 
glorious  twenty-one,  with  your  inexhaustible  powers  of 
doing  and  enjoying,  eating  and  hungering,  sleeping  and 
sitting  up,  reading  and  playing  !  Happy  are  those  who  still 
possess  you,  and  can  take  their  fill  of  your  golden  cup, 
steadied  but  not  saddened  by  the  remembrance  that  foi 
all  things  a  good  and  loving  God  will  bring  them  into  judg- 
ment !  Happier  still  those  who  (like  a  few)  retain  in  body 
and  soul  the  health  and  buoyancy  of  twenty-one  on  to  the 
very  verge  of  forty,  and,  seeming  to  grow  younger-hearted 
as  they  grow  older-headed,  can  cast  oif  care  and  work  at  a 
moment's  warning,  laugh  and  frolic  now  as  they  did  twentj 
years  ago,  and  say  with  Wordsworth  — 

"  So  was  it  when  I  was  a  boy, 
So  let  it  be  when  I  am  old. 
Or  let  me  die  !  " 


358  BEDDGELERT.  i. 

^  Unfortunately,  as  will  appear  hereafter,  Elsley's  especial 
be/es  noirs  were  this  very  VVynd  and  his  inseparable  com- 
panion, Naylor,  who  happened  to  be  not  only  the  best  men 
of  the  set,  bnt  Mellot's  especial  friends.  Both  were  Rugby 
men,  now  reading  for  their  degree.  Wynd  was  a  Sln-op- 
shire  squire's  son,  a  lissome  fair-haired  man,  the  handiest 
of  boxers,  rowers,  riders,  shots,  fisliermen,  with  a  noisy 
superabundance  of  animal  spirits,  which  maddened  Elsley. 
Yet  Wynd  had  sentiment  in  his  way,  though  he  took  good 
care  never  to  show  it  to  Elsley  ;  could  repeat  Tennyson 
from  end  to  end  ;  spouted  the  Mort  d'Arthur  up  hill  and 
down  dale,  and  chanted  rapturously,  "  Come  into  the  gar- 
den, Maud  !  "  while  he  expressed  his  opinion  of  Maud's 
lover  in  terms  more  forcible  than  dolicate.  Naylor,  fidus 
Achates,  was  a  Gloucestershire  parson's  son,  a  huge,  heavy- 
looking  man,  with  a  thick  curling  lip,  and  a  sleepy  eye  ; 
but  he  had  brains  enough  to  become  a  first-rate  classic  , 
and  in  that  same  sleepy  eye  and  heavy  lip  la}'  an  infinity  of 
quiet  humor  ;  racy  old-country  stories,  quaint  scraps  of  out- 
of-the-way  learning,  jovial  old  baHads,  which  he  sang  with 
the  mellowest  of  voices,  and  a  slang  vocabulary,  which 
made  him  the  dread  of  all  bargees  from  Newnham-pool  to 
Upware.  Him  also  Elsley  hated,  because  Naylor  looked 
always  as  if  he  was  laughing  at  him,  which  indeed  he  was. 

And  the  worst  was  that  Elsley  had  always  to  ftice  them 
both  at  once.  If  Wynd  vaulted  over  a  gate  into  his  very 
face,  with  a  "  How  d'e  do,  Mr.  Vavasour  ?  Had  any  verses 
this  morning  ?  "  in  the  same  tone  as  if  he  had  asked,  "  Had 
any  sport?"  Naylor's  round  face  was  sure  to  look  over  the 
stone  wall,  pipe  in  mouth,  with  a  "  Don't  disturb  the  gen- 
tleman, Tom  ;  don't  you  see  he  's  a  composing  of  his 
rhymes  ? "  in  a  strong  provincial  dialect,  put  on  for  the 
nonce.  In  fact,  the  two  young  rogues,  having  no  respect 
whatsoever  for  genius,  perhaps  because  they  had  each  of 
them  a  little  genius  of  their  own,  made  a  butt  of  the  poet, 
as  soon  as  they  found  out  that  he  was  afraid  of  them. 

But  worse  be/en  noirs  than  either  Wynd  or  Naylor  were 
on  their  way  to  fill  up  the  cup  of  Elsley's  discomfort.  And, 
at  last,  without  a  note  of  warning,  appeared  in  Beddgelert 
a  plicnomenon  which  rejoiced  some  hearts,  but  perturbed 
also  the  spirits  not  only  of  the  Oxford  "  philanderers," 
but  those  of  Elsley  Vavasour,  and,  what  is  more,  of  Valencia 
herself 

She  was  sitting  one  evening  at  the  window  with  Lucia, 
looking  out  into  the  village  and  the  pleasure-grounds  before 


«  BEDDGELERT.  359 

the  hotel.  They  were  both  laughing  and  chatting  over  the 
groups  of  tourists  in  their  pretty  Irish  way,  just  as  they 
had  done  when  the}"^  were  girls  ;  for  Lucia's  heart  was  ex- 
panding under  tlie  quiet  beauty  of  the  place,  the  freedom 
trom  househokl  care,  and,  what  was  more,  from  money  anx- 
ieties ;  for  Valencia  had  slipped  into  her  hand  a  check  for 
fifty  pounds  from  Scoutbush,  and  assured  her  that  he  would 
be  quite  angry  if  she  spoke  of  paying  the  rent  of  the  rooms  ; 
Elsley  was  mooning  down  the  river  by  himself;  Claude  was 
entertaining  his  Cambridge  acquaintances,  as  he  did  every 
night,  with  his  endless  fun  and  sentiment.  Gradually  the 
tourists  slipt  in  one  by  one,  as  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  faded 
ofl'  the  peaks  of  Aran,  and  the  mist  settled  down  upon  the 
dark  valley  beneath,  and  darkness  fell  upon  that  rock-girdled 
paradise  ;  when  up  to  the  door  below  there  drove  a  car,  at 
Bight  whereof  out  rushed,  not  waiters  only  and  landlady,- 
but  Mr.  Bowie  himself,  who  helped  out  a  very  short  figure 
in  a  pea-jacket  and  a  shining  boating-hat,  and  then  a  very 
tall  one  in  a  wild  shooting-coat  and  a  military  cap. 

"  My  bi'other,  and  mon  Saint  Pere  !  Lucia  !  too  delight- 
ful !  This  is  why  they  did  not  write."  And  Valencia  sprang 
up,  and  was  going  to  run  down  stairs  to  them,  when  she 
paused  at  Lucia's  call. 

"  Who  have  they  with  them  ?  Val.,  come  and  look  ! 
Who  can  it  be  ?  " 

Campbell  and  Bowie  were  helping  out  carefully  a  tall 
man,  covered  up  in  many  wrappers.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
the  face  ;  but  a  flmcy  crossed  Valencia's  mind  which  made 
her  look  grave,  in  spite  of  her  pleasure. 

He  was  evidently  weak,  as  from  recent  illness ;  for 
his  two  supporters  led  him  up  the  steps,  and  Scoutbush 
seemed  full  of  directions  and  inquiries,  and  fussed  about 
with  the  landlady,  till  she  was  tired  of  curtseying  to  "  my 
lord." 

A  minute  afterwards  Bowie  threw  open  the  door 
grandly.  "  My  lord,  my  ladies  !  "  and  in  trotted  Scout- 
bush, and  began  kissing  them  fiercely,  and  then  dancing 
about. 

"0,  my  dears  !  Here  at  last  —  out  of  that  horrid  city  of 
the  plague  !  Such  sights  as  I  have  seen  —  "  and  then  he 
paused.  "  Do  you  know,  Val.  and  Li^cia,  I  'm  glad  I  've 
seen  it ;  I  don't  know,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  should  be  a  better 
man  all  my  life  ;  and  those  poor  people,  how  well  they  did 
behave  !  And  the  major,  he  's  an  angel !  And  so  's  that 
brick  of  a  doctor,  and  the  mad  schoolmistress,  and  the  curate 


360  BEDDGELERT.  ^ 

Everybody,  I  think,  but  me.  Hang  it,  Val. !  but  your  words 
shan't  come  true  !  I  will  be  of  some  use  yet  before  I  die  ! 
But  I  've  —  "  and  Valencia  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  liiin, 
while  he  ran  on,  and  Lucia  said  — 

"  You  have  been  of  use  already,  dear  Fred.  You  have 
sent  me  and  the  dear  cliildren  to  tliis  sweet  place,  where  we 
have  been  safer  and  happier  than  — "  (she  checked  her- 
self) ;  "  and  your  generous  present  too.  I  feel  quite  a  girl 
again,  thanks  to  you.  Val.  and  1  have  done  nothing  but 
laugh  all  day  long  ;  "  and  she  began  kissing  him  too. 

"  How  happy  could  I  be  with  either, 
Were  t'  other  dear  charmer  away  !  " 

broke  ,out  Scoutbush.  "What  a  pity  it  is,  now,  that  I 
Bhould  have  two  such  sweet  creatures  making  love  to  me, 
and  can't  marry  cither  of  them  !  Why  did  ye  go  and  be 
ray  father's  daughters,  mavourneen  ?  I  'd  have  made  a 
peeress  of  the  one  of  ye,  if  ye  'd  had  the  sense  to  be  any- 
body else's  sisters." 

At  which  they  all  laughed,  and  laughed,  and  chattered 
broad  Irish  together,  as  they  used  to  do  for  fun  in  old  Kilan- 
baggan  Castle,  before  Lucia  was  aweary  wife,  and  Valencia  a 
worldly  fine  lady,  and  Scoutbush  a  rackety  guardsman, 
breaking  half  of  the  ten  commandments  every  week,  rather 
from  ignorance  than  vice. 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  ye  're  pleased  with  me,  asthore,"  said 
he  at  last  to  Lucia;  "but  I've  done  another  little  good 
deed,  I  flatter  myself;  for  I  've  brought  away  the  poor 
spalpeen  of  a  priest,  and  have  got  him  safe  in  the  house." 

Valencia  stopped  short  in  her  fun. 

"  Why,  what  have  ye  to  say  against  that,  Miss  Val.  ?  " 

"  Why,  won't  he  be  a  little  in  the  way  ? "  said  Valencia, 
not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"Faith,  he  needn't  trouble  you;  and  I  shall  take  very 
good  care  —  I  wonder  when  the  supper  is  coming  —  that 
neither  he  nor  any  one  else  troubles  me.  But  really," 
said  he,  in  his  natural  voice,  and  with  some  feeling,  "  I  was 
ashamed  to  go  away  and  leave  him  there.  He  would  have 
died  if  we  had.  He  worked  day  and  night.  Talk  of  saints 
and  martyrs  !  Campbell  himself  said  he  was  an  idler  by  the 
Bide  of  him." 

"  0,  I  hope  Major  Campbell  has  not  over-exerted  hira- 
eelf!" 

"He!   nothing  hurts   him.     He's   as   hard   as  his  own 


BEDDGELERT.  361 

Bword.  But  the  poor  curate  worked  on,  till  be  got  the 
cholera  himself.  He  always  expected  it  —  longed  for  it; 
u'ampbell  said  —  wanted  to  die.  Some  love  affair,  I  sup- 
pose, poor  fellow  !■ — and  a  terrible  bout  he  had  for  eight- 
and-fort}^  hours.  Thurnall  thought  him  gone  again  and 
again  ;  but  he  pulled  the  poor  fellow  through,  after  all ; 
and  we  got  some  one  (that  is,  Campbell  did)  to  take  his 
duty,  and  brought  him  away,  after  a  good  deal  of  persua- 
sion, for  he  would  not  move  as  long  as  there  was  a  fresh 
case  in  the  town  ;  —  that  is  why  we  never  wrote.  We  did 
not  know  till  the  last  hour  when  we  should  start ;  and  we 
expected  to  be  with  you  in  two  days,  and  give  you  a 
pleasant  surprise.  He  was  half  dead  when  we  got  him  on 
looard,  but  the  week's  sea-air  helped  him  through  ;  so  I 
must  not  grumble  at  these  northerly  breezes.  '  It 's  an 
ill-wind' that  blows  nobody  good,'  they  say  !  " 

Valencia  heard  all  this  as  in  a  dream,  and  watched  her 
chatteiing  brother  with  a  stupefied  air.  She  comprehended 
all  now  ;  and  bitterly  she  blamed  herself.  He  had  really 
loved  her,  then  ;  set  himself  manfully  to  die  at  his  post, 
that  he  might  forget  her  in  a  better  world.  How  shamefully 
she  had  trilled  with  that  noble  heart  !  How  should  she 
ever  meet  —  how  have  courage  to  look  him  in  the  face  ? 
And  not  love,  or  anything  like  love,  but  sacred  pity  and 
self-abasement  filled  her  heart,  as  his  fair,  delicate  face  rose 
up  before  her,  all  wan  and  shrunken,  with  sad  upbraiding 
eyes  ;  and  round  it  such  a  halo,  pure  and  pale,  as  crowns, 
in  some  old  German  picture,  a  martyr's  head. 

"  He  has  had  the  cholera  !  he  has  been  actually  dying  ?  " 
asked  she,  at  last,  with  that  strange  wish  to  hear  over  again 
bad  news,  which  one  knows  too  well  already. 

"Of  course  he  has.  Why,  you  are  not  going  away, 
Valencia  ?  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  infection.  Campbell, 
and  Thurnall,  too,  say  that 's  all  nonsense  ;  and  they  must 
kii.ow,  having  seen  it  so  often.  Here  comes  Bowie  at  last 
with  supper  !  " 

"  Has  Mr.  Headley  had  anything  to  eat  ?  "  asked  Valen- 
cia, who  longed  to  run  away  to  her  own  room,  but  dared 
not. 

"He  is  eating  now,  like  any  ged,  ma'am  ;  and  Major 
Campbell  's  making  him  eat,  too." 

"He  must  be  very  ill,"  thought  she,  "for  mon  Saint 
Pere  never  to  have  come  near  us  yet ;  "  and  then  she  thought 
with  terror  that  her  Saint  Pere  miglit  have  guessed  the 
31 


362  BEDDGELERT. 

tnith,  and  be  angry  with  her.  And  yet  she  trusted  it 
Frank's  secrecy.     lie  would  not  betray  her. 

Take  care,  Valencia.  When  a  woman  has  to  trust  a  man 
not  to  betray  her,  and  does  trust  him,  she  may  soon  lind 
it  not  only  easy,  but  necessary,  to  do  more  than  trust 
him. 

However,  in  five  minutes  Campbell  came  in.  Valencia 
saw  at  once  that  there  was  no  change  in  his  feeling's  to  her  ; 
but  he  could  talk  of  nothing  but  Ileadley,  his  seli-dovotion, 
courage,  angelic  gentleness,  and  humility  ;  and  every  word 
of  his  praise  was  a  fresh  arrow  in  Valencia's  conscience  ; 
at  last, — 

"One  knows  well  enough  what  is  the  matter,"  said  he, 
almost  bitterly  ;  "  what  is  the  matter,  I  sometimes  thi  ik, 
with  half  the  noblest  men  in  the  world,  and  nine  tenths  of 
the  noblest  women  ;  and  with  many  a  one,  too,  God  help 
them  I  who  is  none  of  the  noblest,  and,  therefore  does  not 
know  how  to  take  the  bitter  cup,  as  he  knows  —  " 

"  What  does  the  philosopher  mean,  now  ?  "  asked  Scout- 
bush,  looking  up  from  the  cold  lamb.  Valencia  knew  but 
too  well  what  he  meant. 

"He  has  a  history,  my  dear  lord." 

"  A  history  ?     What !  is  he  writing  a  book  ?  " 

Campbell  laughed  a  quiet  under-Iaugh,  half  sad,  half 
humorous. 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  said  Valencia  ;  "  I  really  think  I  shaU 
go  to  bed." 

She  went  to  her  room,  but  to  bed  she  did  not  go  ;  —  she 
sat  down  and  cried  till  she  could  cry  no  more,  and  lay 
awake  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  tossing  miserably. 
She  would  have  done  better  if  she  had  prayed  ;  but  prayer, 
about  such  a  matter,  was  what  Valencia  knew  nothing  of. 
She  was  regular  enough  at  church,  of  course,  and  said  her 
prayers  and  confessed  her  sins  in  a  general  way,  and  prayed 
about  her  "soul,"  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do  —  unless 
she  was  too  tired  ;  but  to  pray  really,  about  a  real  sorrow, 
a  real  sin  like  this,  was  a  thought  which  never  entered  her 
mind  ;  and,  if  it  had,  she  would  have  driven  it  away  again, 
just  because  the  anxiety  was  so  real,  practical,  human,  it 
was  a  matter  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  religion,  which 
it  seemed  impertinent,  almost  wrong,  to  lay  before  the 
throne  of  God. 

So  she  came  dowjn  stairs  next  morning,  pale,  restless, 
unrefreshed  in  body  or  mind  ;  and  her  peace  of  mind  waa 
not  improved  by  seeing,  seated  at  the  breakfast- table,  Frank 


BEDDGELERT.  363 

Headley,  whom  Lucia  and  Scoutbush  were  stuflBng  with  al3 
manner  of  good  things. 

She  blushed  scarlet — do  what  she  would  she  could  not 
help  it  —  when  he  rose  and  bowed  to  her.  Half  choked, 
she  came  forward  and  ofi'ered  her  liand.  She  was  "so 
shocked  to  hear  that  he  had  been  so  dangerously  ill, — no 
one  had  even  told  them  of  it,  —  it  had  come  upon  them  so 
suddenly  ;  "  and  so  forth. 

She  spoke  kindly,  but  avoided  the  least  tone  of  tender- 
ness ;  for  she  felt  that,  if  she  gave  wa}^  she  might  be  only 
too  tender,  and  to  reawaken  hope  in  his  hpart  would  be  only 
cruelty.  And,  therefore,  and  for  other  reasons  also,  she  did 
not  look  him  in  the  face  as  she  spoke. 

He  answered  so  cheerfully,  that  she  was  half  disappointed, 
in  spite  of  her  remorse,  at  his  not  being  as  miserable  as  she 
had  expected.  Still,  if  he  had  overcome  the  passion,  it  was 
so  much  better  for  him.  But  yet  Valencia  hardly  wished 
that  he  should  have  overcome  it,  so  self-contradictory  is 
woman's  heart ;  and  her  pit}-  had  sunk  to  half-ebb,  and  her 
self-complacency  was  rising  with  a  flowing  tide,  as  he 
chatted  on  quietly,  but  genially,  about  the  voyage,  and 
the  scenery,  and  Snowdon,  which  he  had  never  seen,  and 
which  he  would  ascend  that  very  day. 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Headley  !  "  cried 
Lucia.     "  Is  he  not  mad.  Major  Campbell,  quite  mad  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  am  mad,  my  dear  Mrs.  Vavasour  ;  I  have  been 
BO  a  long  time  ;  but  Snowdon  ponies  are  in  their  sober 
senses,  and  I  shall  take  one  of  them." 

"Fulfil  the  old  pun?  Begin  beside  yourself,  and  end 
beside  your  horse  !  I  am  sure  he  is  not  strong  enough  to 
sit  over  those  rocks.  No,  you  shall  stay  at  home  comfort- 
ably here  ;  Valencia  and  I. will  take  care  of  you." 

"  And  mon  Saint  Pere,  too  ?  I  have  a  thousand  things 
to  say  to  him." 

"  And  so  has  be  to  Queen  Whims." 

So  Scoutbush  sent  Bowie  for  "  John  Jones  Clerk,"  the 
fisherman  (may  his  days  be  as  many  as  his  salmon,  and  as 
good  as  his  flies  !),  and  the  four  stayed  at  home,  and  talked 
over  the  Aberalva  tragedies,  till,  as  it  befell,  both  Lucia  and 
Campbell  left  the  room  a  while. 

Immediately  Frank  rose,  and,  walking  across  to  Valencia, 
laid  the  fatal  ring  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  returned  tc 
his  seat  without  a  word. 

"You  are  very .     I   hope  that  it ,"  stammered 

Valencia. 


364  BEDDGELERT. 

"  You  hope  that  it  was  a  comfort  to  me  ?  It  was^  and  1 
Bhall  be  alwaj^s  grateful  to  you  for  it." 

Valencia  heard  an  emphasis  on  the  "was."  It  checked 
the  impulse  (foolish  enougli)  which  rose  in  her,  to  bid  him 
keep  the  ring. 

So,  prim  and  dignified,  she  slijjped  it  into  its  place  on 
ht-r  finger,  and  went  on  with  her  work,  merely  saying, 

"  I  need  not  say  that  I  am  happy  that  anything  which  T 
co(dd  do  should  have  been  of  use  to  3^ou  in  such  a  fearful 
time." 

"  It  was  a  fearful  time  !  but,  for  myself,  I  cannot  be  too 
glad  of  it.  God  grant  that  it  may  have  been  as  useful  to 
others  as  to  me  !  It  cured  me  of  a  great  folly.  Now  I 
look  back,  I  am  astonished  at  my  own  absurdity,  rudeness, 
presumption.  You  must  let  me  say  it !  I  do  not  know 
how  to  thank  you  enough.  I  cannot  trust  myself  with  the 
fit  words,  they  would  be  so  strong  ;  but  I  owe  this  confes- 
sion to  you,  and  to  your  exceeding  goodness  and  kindness, 
when  you  would  have  been  justified  in  treating  me  as  a 
madman.  I  was  mad,  I  believe  :  but  I  am  in  my  riglit 
mind  now,  I  assure  you,"  said  he,  gayly.  "Had  I  not 
been,  I  need  hardly  say  you  would  not  liave  seen  me  here. 
What  a  prospect  this  is  !  "  And  he  rose  and  looked  out 
of  the  window. 

Valencia  had  heard  all  this  with  downcast  eyes  and  un- 
moved face.  Was  she  pleased  at  it  ?  Not  in  the  least,  the 
naughty  child  that  she  was  ;  and,  more,  she  grew  quite 
angry  with  herself,  ashamed  of  herself,  for  having  thought 
and  felt  so  much  about  him  the  night  before.  "  llow  silly 
of  me  !  lie  is  very  well,  and  does  not  care  for  me.  And 
who  is  he,  pray,  that  I  should  even  look  at  him  ?  " 

And,  as  if  in  order  to  put  her  words  into  practice,  she 
looked  at  him  there  and  then.  He  was  gazing  out  of  the 
window,  leaning  gracefully  and  yet  feebly  against  the  shut- 
ter, with  the  full  glory  of  the  forenoon  sun  upon  his  sharp- 
cut  profile  and  rich  chestnut  locks  ;  and,  after  all,  having 
looked  at  liim  once,  she  could  not  help  looking  at  him 
again.  He  was  certainly  a  most  gentleman-like  man,  ele- 
gant from  head  to  foot ;  there  was  not  an  ungracei'ul  line 
about  him,  to  his  very  boots,  and  the  white  nails  of  his 
slender  fingers;  even  the  defects  of  his  figure  —  the  too 
great  length  of  the  neck  and  slope  of  the  shoulders  —  in- 
creased his  likeness  to  those  saintly  pictures  with  which  he 
had  been  mixed  up  in  her  mind  the  niglit  before,  lie  was 
at  one  extreme  pol<^  of  the  different  types  of  manhood,  and 


BEDDGELERT.  365 

that  burly  ductor  who  had  saved  his  life  at  the  other  ;  but 
her  Saint  Pere  alone  perfectly  combined  the  two.  There 
was  nobody  like  him,  after  all.  Perhaps  her  wisest  plan, 
as  Headley  had  forgotten  his  fancy,  was  to  confess  all  to 
the  Saint  Pere  (as  she  usually  did  her  little  sins),  and  get 
some  sort  of  absolution  from  him. 

However,  she  must  sa}'  something  in  answer. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  very  lovely  view  ;  but,  really,  I  must  say 
one  more  word  about  this  matter.  I  have  to  thank  you, 
you  know,  for  the  good  faith  which  you  have  kept  with 
me." 

He  looked  round,  seemingly  amused.  "  Cela  va  sans 
dire  !  "  and  he  bowed  ;  "pray  do  not  say  any  more  about 
the  matter  ;  "  and  he  looked  at  her  with  such  humble  and 
thankful  eyes,  that  Valencia  was  sorry  not  to  hear  more 
from  him  than  — 

"Pray  tell  me  —  for  of  course  you  know  —  the  name  of 
this  exquisite  valle}^  up  which  I  am  looking." 

"  Gwynnant.  You  must  go  up  it  when  you  are  well 
enough,  and  see  the  lakes  ;  they  are  the  only  ones  in  Sncjw- 
don  from  the  banks  of  which  the  primeval  forest  has  not 
disappeared." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  must  make  shift  to  go  there  this  very  after- 
noon, for  —  do  not  laugh  at  me  —  but  I  never  saw  a  lake  in 
my  life." 

"  Never  saw  a  lake  ?  " 

"No.  I  am  a  true  Lowlander;  born  and  bred  among 
bleak  Norfolk  sands  and  fens,  —  so  much  the  worse  for  this 
chest  of  mine,  —  and  this  is  my  first  sight  of  mountains. 
It  is  all  like  a  dream  to  me,  and  a  dream  which  I  never 
expected  to  be  realized." 

"Ah,  j-ou  should  see  our  Irish  lakes  and  mountains, — 
you  should  see  Killarney  !  " 

"I  am  content  with  these  :  I  suppose  it  is  as  wrong  to 
break  the  tenth  commandment  about  scenery,  as  about 
anything  else." 

"  Ah,  but  it  seems  so  hard  that  you,  who,  I  am  sure, 
would  appreciate  fine  scenery,  should  have  been  debarred 
from  it,  while  hundreds  of  stupid  people  run  over  the  Alps 
and  Italy  every  summer,  and  come  home,  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  rather  m^re  stupid  than  they  went  :  having  made  con- 
fusion worse  confounded,  by  tilling  their  puor  brains  with 
hard  names  out  of  Murray." 

"  Not  quite  so  hard  as  that  thousands,  every  day,  who 
would  enjoy  a  meat  dinner,  should  have  nothing  but  dry 
31* 


3GG  BEDDGELERT. 

bread,  and  not  enough  of  that.  I  fancy,  sometimes,  that  in 
some  mysterious  way  that  want  will  be  made  up  to  them  in 
the  next  b'fe  ;  and  so  with  all  the  beautil'ul  tilings  which 
travelled  people  talk  of — I  comfort  myself  with  the  fancy, 
that  I  see  as  much  as  is  good  for  me  here,  and  that,  if  I  make 
good  use  of  that,  I  shall  see  the  Alps  and  the  Andes  in  the 
wo)-ld  to  come,  or  something  much  more  worth  seeing.  Tell 
me,  now,  how  far  may  that  range  of  crags  be  from  us  i*  I  am 
sure  that  I  could  walk  there  after  luncheon,  this  mountain 
air  is  strengthening  me  so." 

"  Walk  thither  ?  I  assure  you  they  are  at  least  four  miles 
off." 

"Four?  And  I  thought  them  one!  So  clear  and  sharp 
as  they  stand  out  against  the  sky,  one  fancies  that  one 
could  almost  stretch  out  a  hand  and  touch  those  knolls  and 
slabs  of  rock,  as  distinct  as  in  a  photograph  ;  and  yet  so  soft 
and  rich  withal,  dappled  with  pearly-gray  stone  and  purple 
heath.  Ah!  —  So  it  must  be,  I  suppose.  The  first  time 
that  one  sees  a  glorious  thing,  one's  heart  is  lifted  up 
towards  it  in  love  and  awe,  till  it  seems  near  to  one  — 
ground  on  which  one  may  freely  tread  because  one  appreci- 
ates and  admires  ;  and  so  one  forgets  the  distance  between 
its  grandeur  and  one's  own  littleness." 

The  allusion  was  palpable  ;  but  did  he  intend  it?  Surely 
not,  after  what  he  had  just  said.  And  yet  there  was  a  sad- 
ness in  the  tone  which  made  Valencia  fancy  that  some- feel- 
ing for  her  might  still  linger ;  but  he  evidently  had  been 
speaking  to  himself,  forgetful,  for  the  moment,  of  her  pres- 
ence ;  for  he  turned  to  her  with  a  start  and  a  blush  —  "  But 
now  —  I  have  been  troubling  you  too  long  with  this  stupid 
tete-a-tete  sentimentality  of  mine.  I  will  make  my  bow,  and 
find  the  major.  I  am  afraid,  if  it  be  possible  for  him  to  for- 
get any  one,  he  has  forgotten  me  in  some  new  moss  or 
other." 

He  went  out,  and  to  Valencia's  chagrin  she  saw  him  no 
more  that  da3\  lie  spent  the  forenoon  in  the  garden,  and 
the  afternoon  in  lying  down,  and  at  night  complained  of 
fatigue,  and  stayed  in  his  own  room  the  whole  evening,  wljile 
Campb(!ll  read  him  to  sleep.  Next  morning,  however,  he 
made  his  appearance  at  breakfast,  well  and  cheerful. 

"  I  must  play  at  sick  man  no  more,  or  I  shall  rob  you,  1 
see,  of  Major  Campbell's  company  ;  and  I  owe  you  all  for 
too  much  already." 

"  Unless  you  are  better  than  you  were  last  night,  you 
oiust  play  at  sick  man,"  said  the  major.  "  I  cannot  conceive 


BEDDGELERT.  367 

what  exhausted  you  so.  Unless  you  ladies  are  better  nurses, 
I  must  let  no  one  come  near  him  but  myself.  If  you  had 
been  scolding  him  the  whole  morning",  instead  of  praising 
him  as  he  deserves,  he  could  not  have  been  more  tired  last 
night." 

"Pray  do  not!"  cried  Frank,  evidently  much  pained; 
"  I  had  such  a  delightful  morning,  and  every  one  is  so  kind 
—  you  only  make  me  wretched,  when  I  feel  all  the  trouble  I 
am  giving." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Scoutbush  en  grand  serieux, 
"  after  all  that  you  have  done  for  our  people  at  Aberalva,  I 
should  be  very  much  shocked  if  any  of  my  family  thought 
any  service  shown  to  you  a  trouble." 

"  Pray  do  not  speak  so,"  said  Frank,  "  I  am  fallen  among 
angels  when  I  least  expected." 

"  Scoutbush  as  an  angel  !  "  shrieked  Lucia,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  Elsley,  don't  you  see  the  wings  sprouting  already, 
under  his  shooting-jacket  ?  " 

"They  are  my  braces,  I  suppose,  of  course,"  said  Scout- 
bush, who  never  understood  a  joke  about  himself,  though  he 
liked  one  about  other  people  ;  while  Elsley,  who  hated  all 
jokes,  made  no  answer  —  at  least  none  worth  recording. 
In  fact,  as  the  reader  may  have  discovered,  Elsley,  save 
tete-k-tete  with  some  one  who  took  his  fancy,  was  somewhat 
of  a  silent  and  morose  animal,  and,  as  little  Scoutbush  con- 
fided to  Mellot,  there  was  no  getting  a  rise  out  of  him.  All 
which  Lucia  saw  as  keenly  as  any  one,  and  tried  to  pass  off 
by  chattering  nervously  and  fussily  for  him,  as  well  as  for 
herself;  whereby  she  only  made  him  the  more  cross,  for  he 
could  not  the  least  understand  her  argument — "  Why,  my 
dear,  if  you  don't  talk  to  people,  I  must !  " 

"  But  why  should  people  be  talked  to  ?  " 

"  Because  they  like  it,  and  expect  it !  " 

"The  more  foolish  the3^  Much  better  to  hold  their 
tongues  and  think." 

"Or,  read  your  poetry,  I  suppose?"  And  then  would 
begin  a  squabble. 

Meanwhile,  there  was  one,  at  least,  of  the  party,  who  was 
watching  Lucia  with  most  deep  and  painful  interest.  Lord 
Scoutbush  was  too  busy  with  his  own  comforts,  especially 
with  his  fishing,  to  think  much  of  this  moroseness  of  Elsley. 
"If  he  suited  Lucia,  very  well.  His  taste  and  hers  dif- 
fered ;  but  it  was  her  concern,  not  his  "  —  was  a  very  easy 
way  of  freeing  himself  from  all  anxiety  on  the  matter  ;  but 
Dot  so  with  Major  Canr.pbell.     He  saw  all  this ;  and  knew 


368  BEDDGELERT. 

enough  o^  human  nature  to  suspect  that  the  self-seeking 
whicli  showed  as  inoroseness  in  company,  miglit  sliuw  as 
downriglit  bad  temper  in  private.  Lon}i,-iiig-  to  know  more 
oi"  Paisley,  if  possible,  to  g-uide  and  help  him,  he  tried  to  be 
intimate  witli  liim,  as  he  had  tried  at  Aberalva  ;  paid  him 
court,  asked  his  opinion,  talked  to  him  on  all  subjects 
whicli  he  thought  would  interest  him.  His  conclusion  was 
more  favorable  to  Elsley's  liead  than  to  his  heart.  He  saw 
that  Elsley  was  vain,  and  liked  his  attentions  :  and  that 
lowered  him  in  his  eyes  ;  but  he  saw  too  that  Elsley  shrank 
from  him.  At  iirst  he  thought  it  pride,  but  he  soon  found  that 
it  was  fear  ;  and  that  lowered  him  still  more  in  his  eyes. 

Perhaps  Campbell  was  too  hard  on  the  poet ;  but  his  own 
purity  itself  told  against  Elsley.  "  Who  am  I,  that  any  one 
should  be  afraid  of  me,  unless  they  have  done  something 
wrong  ?  "  So,  with  his  dark  suspicions  roused,  he  watched 
intently  every  word  and  every  tone  of  Elsley  to  his  wife  ; 
and  here  he  came  to  a  more  unpleasant  conclusion  still.  lie 
saw  that  they  were,  sometimes  at  least,  not  happy  together  ; 
and  from  this  he  took  for  granted,  too  hastily,  that  they 
were  never  happy  together  ;  that  Lucia  was  an  utterly  ill- 
used  person  ;  that  Elsley  was  a  bad  fellow,  who  ill-treated 
her ;  and  a  black  and  awful  indignation  against  the  man 
grew  up  within  him,- — ^all  the  more  fierce  because  it  seemed 
utterly  righteous,  and  because,  too,  it  had,  under  heavy 
penalties,  to  be  utterly  concealed  beneath  a  courteous  and 
genial  manner,  —  till  many  a  time  he  felt  inclined  to  knock 
Elsley  down  for  little  roughnesses  to  her,  which  were  really 
the  fruit  of  mere  gaucherie  ;  and  then  accused  himself  for  u 
h3'pocrite,  because  he  was  keeping  up  the  courtesies  of  life 
with  such  a  man.  For  Campbell,  like  most  men  of  his  tem- 
perament, was  over-stern,  and  sometimes  a  little  cruel  and 
unjust,  in  demanding  of  others  the  same  lofty  code  which 
he  had  laid  down  for  himself,  and  in  demanding  it,  too,  of 
some  more  than  of  others,  by  a  very  questionable  exercise 
of  private  judgment.  On  the  whole,  he  was  right,  no  doubt, 
in  being  as  indulgent  as  he  dared  to  the  publicans  and  sin. 
ners  like  Scoutbush  ;  and  in  being  as  severe  as  he  dared  on 
all  Pharisees  and  pretentious  persons  whatsoever ;  but  ho 
was  too  much  inclined  to  draw  between  the  two  classes  one 
of  those  strong  lines  of  demarcation  which  exist  only  in  the 
fancies  of  the  human  brain  ;  for  sins,  like  all  diseased  mat- 
ters, are  complicated  and  confused  matters  ;  many  a  seem- 
ing Pharisee  is  at  heart  a  self-condemned  publican,  and 
ought  to  be  comforted,  and  not  cursed  ;  while  many  a  pul> 


BEDDGELERT.  369 

lican  is,  in  the  midst  of  all  liis  foul  sins,  a  tliorough  exclu- 
sive and  self-complacent  Pharisee,  and  needs  not  the  right 
hand  of  mercy,  but  the  strong  arm  of  punishment. 

Campbell,  like  other  men,  had  his  faults  ;  and  his  were 
those  of  a  man  wrapped  up  in  a  pure  and  stately,  but  an 
austere  and  lonely  creed,  disgusted  with  the  world  in  all  its 
forms,  and  looking  down  upon  men  in  general  nearly  as 
much  as  Thurnall  did.  So  he  set  down  Elsley  for  a  bad 
man,  to  whom  he  was  forced  by  hard  circumstances  to 
behave  as  if  he  were  a  good  one. 

The  only  way,  therefore,  in  which  he  could  vent  his  feel- 
ing, was  by  showing  to  Lucia  that  studied  attention  which 
sympathy  and  chivalry  demand  of  a  man  toward  an  injured 
woman.  Not  that  he  dared,  or  wished,  to  conduct  himself 
with  her  as  he  did  with  Valencia,  even  had  she  not  been  a 
married  woman.  He  did  not  know  her  as  intimately  as  he 
did  her  sister  ;  but  still  he  had  a  right  to  behave  as  the 
most  intimate  friend  of  her  family,  and  he  asserted  that 
right  ;  and  all  the  moretleterniinedly  because  Elsley  seemed 
now  and  then  not  to  like  it.  "I  will  teach  him  how  to 
behave  to  a  charming  woman,"  said  he  to  himself;  and 
perhaps  he  had  been  wiser  if  he  had  not  said  it ;  but  every 
man  has  his  weak  point,  and  chivalry  was  Major  Camp- 
bell's. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  poet,  Mellot  ?  "  said  he  once, 
on  returning  from  a  pic-nic,  during  which  Elsley  had  never 
noticed  his  wife  ;  and,  at  last,  finding  Valencia  engaged 
with  Headley,  had  actually  gone  off,  pour  pis  aller,  to  watch 
Lord  Scoutbush  fishing. 

"  0,  clever  enough,  and  to  spare ;  and  as  well-read  a 
man  as  I  know.  One  of  the  Sturm-und-drang  party,  of 
course;  —  the  express  locomotive  school,  scream-and-go- 
ahead  ;  and  thinks  me,  witii  my  classicism,  a  benighted 
pagan.  Still,  every  man  has  a  right  to  his  opinion.  Live 
and  let  live." 

"  I  don't  care  about  his  taste,"  said  the  major,  impatiently. 
"  What  sort  of  man  is  he  ?  —  man,  Claude  ?  " 

"  Ahem,  humph  !  '  Irritabile  genus  poetarum.'  But  one 
is  so  accustomed  to  that  among  literary  men,  one  never 
expects  them  to  be  like  anybody  else,  and  so  takes  theii 
whims  and  oddities  for  granted." 

"  And  their  sins  too,  eh  ?  " 

"  Sins  ?     I  know  of  none  on  his  part." 

"  Don't  you  call  temper  a  sin  ?  " 

"  No  ;  1  call  it  a  determination  of  blood  to  the  head,  OJ 


370  BEDDGELERT. 

of  animal  spirits  to  the  wrong  place,  or  —  my  dear  major,  I 
am  no  moralist.  I  take  people,  you  know,  ai5  I  find  them. 
But  he  is  a  bore ;  and  1  should  not  wonder  if  that  sweet 
little  woman  had  found  it  out  ere  now." 

Campbell  ground  something  between  his  teeth.  lie 
fancied  himself  full  of  righteous  wrath  ;  he  was  really  in  a 
very  unchristian  temper.  Be  it  so  ;  perhaps  there  were 
excuses  for  him  (as  there  are  for  many  men),  of  which  we 
know  nothing. 

Elsley,  meanwhile,  watched  Campbell  with  fast  lowering 
brow.  Losing  a  woman's  affections  ?  He  who  does  so 
deserves  his  fate.  Had  he  been  in  the  habit  of  paying  prop- 
er attention  to  Lucia,  he  would  have  liked  Campbell  all 
the  more  for  his  conduct.  There  are  a  few  greater  pleas- 
ures to  a  man  who  is  what  he  should  be  to  his  wii'e,  than  to 
Bee  other  men  admiring  what  he  admires,  and  trj^ing  to  rival 
him,  where  he  knows  that  he  can  have  no  rival.  Let  them 
worship  as  much  as  they  will.  Let  her  make  herself  as 
charming  to  them  as  she  can.  What  matter  ?  He  smiles 
at  them  in  his  heart ;  for,  has  he  not,  over  and  above  all  the 
pretty  things  which  he  can  say  and  do  ten  times  as  well  as 
they,  a  talisnuiu  —  a  dozen  talismans  which  are  beyond 
their  reach  ?  —  in  the  strength  of  which  he  will  go_  home 
and  laugh  over  with  her,  amid  sacred  caresses,  all  which 
makes  mean  men  mad  ?  But  Elsle}^  alas  for  him,  had 
neglected  Lucia  himself,  and  therefore  dreaded  comparison 
with  any  other  man  ;  and  the  suspicions  which  had  taken 
root  in  him  at  Aberalva  grew  into  ugly  shape  and  strength. 
However,  he  was  silent,  and  contented  himself  with  coldness 
and  all  but  rudeness. 

There  were  excuses  for  him.  In  the  first  place,  it  would 
have  been  an  ugly  thing  to  take  notice  of  any  man's  atten- 
tions to  a  wife  ;  it  could  not  be  done  but  upon  the  strongest 
grounds,  and  done  in  a  way  which  would  make  a  complete 
rupture  necessary,  so  breaking  up  the  party  in  a  sufficiently 
unpleasant  way.  Besides,  to  move  in  the  matter  at  all 
would  be  to  implicate  Lucia;  for,  of  whatsoever  kind  Camp- 
bell's attentions  were,  she  evidently  liked  them  ;  and  a 
quarrel  with  her  on  that  score  was  more  than  Elsley  dared 
face.  He  was  not  a  man  of  strong  moral  courage  ;  he  hated 
a  scene  of  any  kind  ;  and  he  was  afraid  of  being  worsted  in 
any  really  serious  quarrel,  not  merelj^  by  Campbell,  but  by 
Lucia.  It  ma}'  seem  strange  that  he  should  be  afraid  of 
her,  though  not  so  that  he  should  be  afraid  of  Campbell. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  the  man,  who  bullies  his  wife  very 


BEDDGELERT.  371 

often,  dues  so  —  as  Elsley  had  done  more  than  once  —  shnply 
to  prove  to  himself  his  own  strength,  and  hide  his  fear  ot 
her.  lie  knew  well  that  woman's  tongue,  when  once  the 
"  fair  beast "  is  brought  to  bay,  is  a  weapon  far  too  trench- 
ant to  be  faced  by  any  shield  but  that  of  a  very  clear  con^ 
science  ti  ward  her  ;  which  was  more  than  Elsley  had. 

Besides  —  and  it  is  an  honor  to  Elsley  Vavasour,  amid  all 
his  weakness,  that  lie  had  justice  and  chivalry  enough  left 
to  know  what  nine  men  out  of  ten  ignore  —  behind  all,  let 
the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  lay  one  just  and  terrible 
rejoinder,  which  he,  though  he  had  been  no  worse  than  the 
average  of  men,  could  only  answer  by  silent  shame,  — 

"  At  least,  sir,  I  was  pure  when  I  came  to  you  !  You 
best  know  whether  you  were  so  likewise." 

And  yet  even  that,  so  all-forgiving  is  woman,  might  have 
been  faced  by  some  means  ;  but  the  miserable  complication 
about  the  false  name  still  remained.  Elsley  believed  that 
he  was  in  his  wife's  power  ;  that  she  could,  if  she  chose, 
turn  upon  him,  and  proclaim  him  to  tlie  world  as  a  scoundrel 
and  an  impostor.  And,  as  it  is  of  the  nature  of  man  to  hate 
those  whom  he  fears,  Elsley  began  to  have  dark  and  ugly 
feelings  toward  Lucia.  Instead  of  throwing  them  away,  as 
a  strong  man  would  have  done,  he  pampered  them  almost 
without  meaning  to  do  so.  For  he  let  them  run  riot  through 
his  too  vivid  imagination,  in  the  form  of  possible  speeches, 
possible  scenes,  till  he  had  looked  and  looked  through  a 
hundred  thoughts  which  no  man  has  a  right  to  entertain  for 
a  moment.  True  ;  he  had  entertained  them  with  horror ; 
but  he  ought  not  to  have  entertained  tliem  at  all  ;  he  ought 
to  have  kicked  them  contemptuously  out  and  back  to  the 
devil,  from  whence  they  came.  It  may  be,  again,  that  this 
is  impossible  to  man  ;  that  prayer  is  the  only  refuge  against 
that  Wulpurgis-dance  of  the  witches  and  the  fiends,  which 
will,  at  hapless  moments,  whirl  unbidden  through  a  mortal 
brain  ;  but  Elsley  did  not  pray. 

So,  leaving  these  fancies  in  his  head  too  long,  he  soon 
became  accustomed  to  them  ;  and  accustomed,  too,  to  the 
Nemesis  which  they  bring  with  them,  of  chronic  moodiness 
and  concealed  rage.  Day  by  day  he  was  lashing  himself 
up  into  fresh  fury,  and  yet  day  by  day  he  was  becoming 
more  careful  to  conceal  that  fury.  He  had  many  reasons  : 
moral  cowardice,  which  made  him  shrink  from  the  tremen- 
dous consequences  of  an  explosion  —  equally  tremendous 
were  he  right  or  wrong.  Then  the  secret  hope,  perhaps 
the  secret  consciousness,  that  he  was  wrong,  and  was  only 


372  BEDDGELERT. 

saying  to  God,  like  the  self-deceiving  prophet,  "  I  do  well 
to  be  angry;"  tlicu  the  honest  fear  of  going  too  far;  of 
being  surprised  at  last  into  some  hideous  and  irreparable 
speech  or  deed,  which  he  might  find  out  too  late  was  utterly 
unjust;  tlieu  at  moments  (for  even  tliat  would  cross  him) 
the  devilish  motion,  that,  by  concealment,  ho  might  lure 
Lucia  on  to  give  him  a  safe  ground  for  attack.  All  tliese, 
and  more,  tormented  him  for  a  wretched  fortnight,  during 
which  he  became,  at  such  an  expense  of  self-control  as  he 
had  not  exercised  for  years,  courteous  to  Campbell,  more 
than  courteous  to  Lucia ;  hiding,  under  a  smiling  face, 
wrath  which  increased  with  the  pressure  brought  to  bear 
upon  it. 

Campbell  and  Lucia,  Mellot,  Valencia,  and  Frank,  utterly 
deceived,  went  on  more  merrily  than  ever,  little  dreaming 
that  they  walked  and  talked  daily  with  a  man  who  was  fast 
becoming  glad  to  fiee  to  the  pit  of  hell,  but  for  the  fear  that 
"  God  would  be  there  also." 

They,  meanwhile,  chatted  on,  enjoying,  as  human  souls 
are  allowed  to  do  at  rare  and  precious  moments,  the  mere 
sensation  of  being ;  of  which  they  would  talk  at  times  in 
a  way  which  led  them  down  into  deep  matters ;  for  in- 
stance — 

"  How  pleasant  to  sit  here  forever!  "  said  Claude,  one 
afternoon,  in  the  inn  garden  at  Beddgelert,  "  and  say,  not 
with  Descartes,  '  I  think,  therefore  1  exist ;  '  but,  simply, 
'  1  enjoy,  therefore  I  exist.'  I  almost  think  those  Emerso- 
nians  are  right  at  times,  when  they  crave  the  '  life  of  plants, 
and  stones,  and  rain.'  Stangrave  said  to  me  once,  that  his 
ideal  of  perfect  bliss  was  that  of  an  oyster  in  the  Indian 
seas,  drinking  the  warm  salt  water  motionless,  and  trou- 
bling himself  about  nothing,  while  nothing  troubled  itself 
about  him." 

"  Till  a  diver  came  and  tore  him  up  for  the  sake  of  his 
pearls  ?  "  said  Valencia. 

"  He  did  not  intend  to  contain  any  pearls.  A  pearl,  you 
know,  is  a  disease  of  the  oyster,  the  product  of  some  irrita- 
tion. He  wished  to  be  the  oyster  pure  and  simple,  a  part 
i>f  nature." 

"  And  to  be  of  no  use  ?  "  asked  Frank. 

"  Of  none  whatsoever.  Nature  had  made  him  what  he 
was,  and  all  beside  was  her  business,  and  not  his.  1  don't 
deny  that  1  laughed  at  him,  and  made  him  wroth  by  telling 
bim  that  his  doctrine  was  '  the  apotheosis  of  loafing.'  But 
my  heart  went  with  him,  and  with  the  jolly  oyster  too      It 


BEDDGELERT.  373 

it  1*8  very  beautiful  after  all,  that  careless  nymph  and  sh'^p- 
herd-life  of  the  old  Greeks,  and  that  Marquesas  romance  of 
Herman  Melville's — to  enjoy  the  simple  fact  of  living,  like 
a  Neapolitan  lazzaroni,  or  a  fly  upon  a  wall." 

"  But  the  old  Greek  heroes  fought  and  labored  to  till  the 
land,  and  rid  it  of  giants  and  monsters,"  said  Frank. 
"  And,  as  for  the  Marquesas,  Mr.  Melville  found  out,  did 
he  not —  as  3'ou  did  once  —  that  they  were  only  petting  and 
fattening  him  for  the  purpose  of  eating  him  ?  There  is  a 
dark  side  to  that  pretty  picture,  Mr.  Mellot." 

"  Tant  pis  pour  eux  !  But  that  is  an  unnecessary  append- 
age to  the  idea,  surely.  It  must  be  possible  to  realize  such 
a  simple,  rich,  healthy  life,  without  wickedness,  if  not  with- 
out human  sorrow.  It  is  no  dream,  and  no  one  shall  rob 
me  of  it.  I  have  seen  fragments  of  it  scattered  up  and 
down  the  world  ;  and  I  believe  they  will  all  meet  in  Para- 
dise —  where  and  when  I  care  not ;  but  they  will  meet.  I 
was  very  happy  in  the  South  Sea  Islands,  after  that,  when 
nobody  meant  to  eat  me  ;  and  I  am  very  happy  here,  and 
do  not  intend  to  be  eaten,  unless  it  will  be  any  pleasure  to 
Miss  St.  Just.  No  :  let  man  enjoy  himself  when  he  can, 
and  take  his  fill  of  those  flaming  red  geraniums,  and  glossy 
rhododendrons,  and  feathered  crown-ferns,  and  the  gold 
green  lace  of  those  acacias  tossing  and  whispering  overhead, 
and  the  purple  mountains  sleeping  there  aloft,  and  the  mur- 
mur of  the  brook  over  the  stones  ;  and  drink  in  scents  with 
every  breath  ;  — what  was  his  nose  made  for,  save  to  smell  ? 
I  used  to  torment  mj^self  once  by  asking  them  all  what  they 
meant.  Now,  I  am  content  to  have  done  with  symbolisms, 
and  say,  '  What  you  all  mean,  I  care  not ;  all  I  know  is 
that  I  can  draw  pleasure  from  the  mere  sight  of  you,  as, 
perhaps,  you  do  from  the  mere  sight  of  me ;  so  let  us  sit 
together.  Nature  and  I,  and  stare  into  each  other's  ej^es 
like  two  young  lovers,  careless  of  the  morrow  and  its  griefs.' 
I  will  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  paint  her.  Why  make 
ugly  copies  of  perfect  pictures  ?  Let  those  who  wish  to  see 
her  take  a  railway  ticket,  and  save  us  academicians  colors 
and  canvas.  Quant  a  moi,  the  public  must  go  to  the  moun- 
tains, as  Mahomet  had  to  do  ;  for  the  mountains  shall  not 
come  to  the  public." 

'One  of  your  wilful  paradoxes,  Mr.  Mellot;  why,  you 
are  photographing  them  all  day  long." 

"  Not  quite  all  day  long,  madam.     And,  after  all,  il  faui 
vivre:  I  want  a  few  luxuries  ;  I  have  no  capacity  for  keep 
ing   a    shop;    photographing   pays   better   than   painting, 
32 


374  BEDDGELERT. 

considering  the  time  it  takes  ;  and  it  is  only  Nature  ropro* 
duciiig-  herself,  not  caricaturing  her.  But  if  any  one  will 
ensure  me  a  poor  two  thousand  a  year,  1  will  promise  to 
photograph  no  more,  but  vanish  to  Sicily  or  Calabria,  and 
sit  with  Sabina  in  an  orchard  all  my  days,  twining  rose- 
garlands  for  her  pretty  head,  like  Theocritus  and  his  friends, 
while  the  '  pears  drop  on  our  shoulders,  and  the  apples  by 
our  side.'  " 

"What  do  you  think  of  all  this?"  asked  Valencia  of 
Frank. 

"That  I  am  too  like  the  Emersonian  oyster  here,  very 
happy,  and  very  useless  ;  and,  therefore,  very  anxious  to 
be  gone." 

"  Surely  you  have  earned  the  right  to  be  idle  a  while  ?  " 

"  No  one  has  a  right  to  be  idle." 

"  0  !  "  groaned  Claude  ;  "  where  did  you  find  that  elev- 
enth commandment  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  with  all  eleventh  commandments  ;  for  I  find 
it  quite  hard  work  enough  to  keep  the  ancient  ten.  But  I 
find  it,  Mellot,  in  the  deepest  abyss  of  all ;  in  the  very 
depth  from  whicli  the  commandments  sprang.  But  we  will 
not  talk  about  it  here." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Valencia,  looking  up.  "  Are  we  so 
very  naughty  as  to  be  unworthy  to  listen  ?  " 

"  And  are  these  mountains,"  asked  Claude,  "  so  ugly  and 
ill-made,  that  they  are  an  unfit  pulpit  for  a  sermon  '{  No ; 
tell  me  what  you  mean.     After  all,  I  am  half  in  jest." 

"  Do  not  courtesy,  pity,  chivalry,  generosity,  self-sacri- 
fice, —  in  short,  being  of  use,  —  do  not  our  hearts  tell  us 
that  they  are  the  most  beautiful,  noble,  lovely  things  in  the 
world  1  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  said  Valencia. 

"  Why  does  one  admire  a  soldier  ?  Not  for  his  epaulets 
and  red  coat,  but  because  one  knows  that,  coxcomb  though 
he  be  at  home  here,  there  is  the  power  in  him  of  that  same 
self-sacrifice  that,  when  he  is  called,  he  will  go  and  die  that 
he  may  be  of  use  to  his  country.  And  yet  —  it  may  seem 
invidious  to  say  so  just  now  —  but  there  are  other  sorts  of 
self-sacrifice,  less  showy,  but  even  more  beautiful." 

"0,  Mr.  Ileadley,  what  can  a  man  do  more  than  die  for 
Lis  countrymen  ?  " 

"  Live  for  them  It  is  a  longer  work,  and  therefore  a 
more  diflScult  and  a  nobler  one." 

Frank  spoke  in  a  somewhat  sad  and  abstracted  tone. 


BEDDGELERT.  375 

"But,  tell  mo,"  she  said,  "what  all  this  has  to  do  with 

—  with  the  deep  matter  of  which  you  spoke  ?  " 

"  Simply  that  it  is  the  law  of  all  earth,  and  heaven,  and 
Him  who  made  them.  That  God  is  perfectly  powerful, 
because  He  is  perfectly  and  infinitely  of  use  ;  and  perfectly 
good,  because  He  delights  utterly  and  always  in  being  of 
use;  and  that,  therefore,  we  can  become  like  God  —  as  the 
very  heathens  felt  that  we  can,  and  ought  to  become  —  only 
in  proportion  as  we  become  of  use.  I  did  not  see  it  once. 
1  tried  to  be  good,  not  knowing  what  good  meant.  I  tried 
to  be  good,  because  I  thought  it  would  pay  me  in  the  world 
to  come.  But,  at  last,  I  saw  that  all  life,  all  devotion,  all 
piety,  were  only  worth  anything,  only  divine,  and  God- 
like, and  God-beloved,  as  they  were  means  to  that  one  end 

—  to  be  of  use." 

"  It  is  a  noble  thought,  Headley,"  said  Claude  ;  but  Valen 
cia  was  silent. 

"  It  is  a  noble  thought,  Mellot ;  and  all  thoughts  become 
clear  in  the  light  of  it ;  even  that  most  difficult  thought  of 
all,  which  so  often  torments  good  people,  when  they  feel, 
'  I  ought  to  love  God,  and  yet  I  do  not  love  Him.'  Easy  to 
love  Him,  if  one  can  once  think  of  Him  as  the  concentration, 
the  ideal  perfection,  of  all  which  is  most  noble,  admirable, 
lovely  in  human  character !  And  easy  to  work,  too,  when 
one  once  feels  that  one  is  working  for  such  a  Being,  and  with 
such  a  Being,  as  that !  The  whole  world  round  us,  and  the 
future  of  the  world  too,  seem  full  of  light  even  down  to  its 
murkiest  and  foulest  depths,  when  we  can  but  remember 
that  great  idea,  —  an  infinitely  useful  God  over  all,  who  is 
trying  to  make  each  of  us  useful  in  his  place.  If  that  be 
not  the  beatific  vision  of  which  old  Mystics  spoke  so  raptur- 
ously, one  glimpse  of  which  was  perfect  bliss,  I  at  least 
know  none  nobler,  desire  none  more  blessed.  Pray  forgive 
me.  Miss  St.  Just !     I  ought  not  to  intrude  thus  !  " 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Valencia. 

"I  —  I  really  have  no  more  to  say.  I  have  said  too  much. 
I  do  not  know  how  I  have  been  betrayed  so  far,"  stammered 
Frank,  who  had  the  just  dislike  of  his  school  of  anything 
like  display  on  such  solemn  matters. 

"  Can  you  tell  us  too  much  truth?  Mr.  Headley  is  I'ight, 
Mr.  McUot,  and  you  are  wrong." 

"  It  will  not  be  the  first  time.  Miss  St.  Just.  But  what 
I  spoke  in  jest,  he  has  answered  in  earnest." 

*•  He  was  quite  right.     We  are  none  of  us  half  earnest 


376  BEDDGELERT. 

enough.     There  is  Lucia  with  the  children."     And  she  lose, 
and  walked  across  the  garden. 

"  You  have  moved  the  fair  trifler  somewhat,"  said  Claude. 

"  God  grant  it   !  but  I  cannot  think  what  made  me." 

"  Why  think  ?  You  spoke  out  nobly,  and  I  shall  not  for- 
get your  sermon." 

"  I  was  not  preaching  at  you,  most  affectionate  and  kindly 
of  men." 

"  And  laziest  of  m('n,  likewise.  What  can  I  do  now,  at 
this  moment,  to  be  of  use  to  any  one?     Set  me  my  task." 

But  Frank  was  following  with  his  eyes  Valencia,  as  she 
went  hurriedly  across  to  Lucia.  lie  saw  her  take  two  of 
the  children  at  once  off  her  sister's  hands,  and  carry  them 
away  down  a  walk.  A  few  minutes  afterwards  he  could 
hear  her  romping  with  them  ;  but  he  could  not  have  guessed, 
from  the  silver  din  of  those  merry  voices,  that  Valencia's 
heart  was  heavy  within  her. 

For  her  conscience  was  really  smitten.  Of  what  use  was 
she  in  the  world  ?  Major  Campbell  had  talked  to  her  often 
about  her  duties  to  this  person  and  to  that,  of  this  same 
necessity  of  being  useful  ;  but  she  had  escaped  from  the 
thought,  as  we  have  seen  her,  in  laughing  at  poor  little 
Scoutbush  on  the  very  same  score.  But  why  had  not  Major 
Campbell's  sermons  touched  her  heart  as  this  one  had  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?  Who  is  there  among  us  to  whom  an  oft- 
heard  truth  has  not  become  a  tiresome  and  superfluous 
common-place,  till  one  day  it  has  flashed  before  us  utterly 
new,  indubitable,  not  to  be  disobeyed,  written  in  letters  of 
fire  across  the  whole  vault  of  heaven  ?  All  one  can  say  is, 
that  her  time  was  not  come.  Besides,  she  looked  on  Major 
Campbell  as  a  being  utterly  superior  to  herself;  and  that 
very  superiority,  while  it  allowed  her  to  be  as  familiar  with 
him  as  she  chose,  excused  her  in  her  own  eyes  from  opening 
to  him  her  real  heart.  She  could  safely  jest  with  him,  let 
liim  pet  hor,  play  at  being  his  daughter,  while  she  felt  that 
between  hini  and  her  lay  a  gulf  as  wide  as  between  earth 
and  heaven  ;  and  that  very  notion  comforted  her  in  her 
naughtiness  ;  for  in  that  case,  of  course,  his  code  of  morals 
was  not  meant  for  her ;  and  while  she  took  his  warnings  (as 
iiumy  of  them  at  least  as  she  chose),  she  thought  herself  by 
no  means  bound  to  follow  his  examples.  She  all  but  wor- 
shipped him  as  her  guardian  angel ;  but  she  was  not  meant 
for  ;in  angel  herself;  so  she  could  indulge  freely  in  those 
'ittle  escapades  and  frivolities  for  which  she  was  born,  and 
then,  whenever  frightened,  run  for  shelter  under  his  wings 


BEDDGELERT.  377 

Bit  to  hear  the  same,  and  even  loftier  words,  frcm  the  lipa 
oi"tlie  curate,  whom  she  had  made  her  toy,  almost  her  butt, 
was  to  have  them  brought  down  unexpectedly  and  painfully 
to  her  own  level.  If  this  was  his  ideal,  why  ought  it  not  to 
be  hers  ?  Was  she  not  his  equal,  perhaps  his  superior  ? 
And  so  her  very  pride  humbled  her,  as  she  said  to  herself, 
"  Then  I  too  ought  to  be  useful.     I  can  be  ;  I  will  be  !  " 

"Lucia,"  asked  she,  that  very  afternoon,  "will  you  let 
me  take  the  children  off  your  hands  while  Clara  is  busy  in 
the  morning  ?  " 

"  0,  you  dear  good  creature  !  but  it  would  be  such  a  gene! 
They  are  really  stupid,  I  am  afraid,  sometimes,  or  else  1  am. 
They  make  me  so  miserably  cross  at  times." 

"  I  will  take  them.  It  would  be  a  relief  to  you,  would  it 
not?" 

"  My  dear  !  "  said  poor  Lucia,  with  a  doleful  smile,  which 
seemed  to  Valencia's  accusing  heart  to  say,  "  Have  you  only 
now  discovered  that  fact  ?  " 

From  that  day  Valencia  courted  Headley's  company  more 
and  more.  To  fall  in  love  with  him  was  of  course  absurd  ; 
and  he  had  cured  himself  of  his  passing  fancy  for  her.  There 
could  be  no  harm,  then,  in  her  making  the  most  of  conversa- 
tion so  different  from  what  she  heard  in  the  world,  and  which 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  liked  so  much  better.  For  it  was 
with  Valencia  as  with  all  women  ;  in  this  common  fault  of 
frivolity,  as  in  most  others,  the  men  rather  than  they  are  to 
blame.  Valencia  had  cultivated  in  herself  those  qualities 
which  she  saw  admired  by  the  men  whom  she  met,  and  some 
one  of  whom,  of  course,  she  meant  to  marry ;  and,  as  their 
female  ideal  was  a  butterfly  ideal,  a  butterfly  she  became. 
But  beneath  all  lay,  deep  and  strong,  the  woman's  love  of 
nobleness  and  wisdom,  the  woman's  longing  to  learn  and  to 
be  led,  which  has  shown  itself  in  every  age  in  so  many  a 
fantastic  and  even  ugly  shape,  and  which  is  their  real  excuse 
for  the  flirting  with  "geniuses,"  casting  themselves  at  the 
feet  of  directors  ;  which  had  tempted  her  to  coquette  with 
Elsley,  and  was  now  bringing  her  into  "undesirable"  inti- 
macy with  the  poor  curate. 

She  had  heard  that  day,  with  some  sorrow,  his  announce- 
ment that  he  wished  to  be  gone  ;  but,  as  he  did  not  refer  to 
it  again,  she  left  the  thought  alone,  and  all  but  forgot  it. 
The  subject,  however,  was  renewed  about  a  week  after- 
wards. "  WHien  you  return  to  Aberalva,"  she  had  said,  in 
reference  to  some  commission. 

"  I  shall  never  return  to  Aberalva." 
32* 


378  BEDDGELERT. 

"  Not  return  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  huve  already  resigned  the  curacy.  I  believe  ynui 
uncle  has  appointed  to  it  the  man  whom  Campbell  found  for 
me  ;  and  an  excellent  man,  I  hear,  he  is.  At  least  he  will 
do  better  there  than  I." 

"  But  what  could  have  induced  you  ?  How  sorry  all  the 
people  will  be  !  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  he,  with  a  smile.  "  I  did 
what  I  could  at  last  to  win  back  at  least  their  respect,  and 
to  leave  at  least  not  hatred  behind  me  ;  but  [  am  unfit  for 
them.  I  did  not  understand  them.  I  meant  —  no  matter 
what  I  meant ;  but  I  failed.  God  forgive  me  !  I  shall  now 
go  somewhere  where  I  shall  have  simpler  work  to  do  ;  where 
1  shall  at  least  have  a  chance  of  practising  the  lesson  which 
I  learnt  there.  I  learnt  it  all,  strange  to  say,  from  the  two 
people  in  the  parish  from  whom  I  expected  to  learn  least." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  and  the  schoolmistress." 

"  Why  from  them  less  than  from  any  in  the  parish  ?  She 
BO  good,  and  he  so  clever  ?  " 

"  That  I  shall  never  tell  to  any  one  now.  Suffice  it  that 
I  was  mistaken." 

Valencia  could  obtain  no  further  answer ;  and  so  the  days 
ran  on,  every  one  becoming  more  and  more  intimate,  till  a 
certain  afternoon,  on  which  they  were  all  to  go  and  pic-nic, 
under  Claude's  pilotage,  above  the  lake  of  Gwynnant.  Scout- 
bush  was  to  have  been  with  them  ;  but  a  heavy  day's  rain  in 
the  mean  while  swelled  the  streams  into  fishing  order ;  so  the 
little  man  ordered  a  car,  and  started  at  three  in  the  morning 
for  Bettws  with  Mr.  Bowie,  who,  however  loath  to  give  up 
the  arrangement  of  plates  and  the  extraction  of  champagne 
corks,  considered  his  presence  by  the  river-side  a  natural 
necessity. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Clara,  ye  see,  there  '11  be  nobody  to  see 
that  his  lordship  pits  on  dry  stockings  ;  and  he  's  always 
getting  over  the  tops  of  his  water-boots,  being  young  and 
daft,  as  we  've  all  been,  and  no  ofience  to  you  ;  and,  to  tell 
you  truth,  I  can  stand  all  temptations  —  in  moderation,  that 
is  —  save  an'  except  the  chance  o'  cleiking  a  fish." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

The  spot  which  Claude  had  chosen  for  the  pic-nic  was  on 
one  of  the  lower  spurs  of  that  great  mountain  of  The  Maid- 
en's Peak,  which  bounds  the  vale  of  Gwynnant  to  the  south. 
Above,  a  wilderness  of  gnarled  volcanic  dykes,  and  purple 
heather  ledges  ;  below,  broken  into  g-lens,  in  which  still 
ling-er  pale  green  ashwoods,  relics  of  that  primeval  forest  in 
which,  in  Bess's  days,  great  Leicester  used  to  rouse  the  hart 
with  hound  and  horn. 

Among  these  Claude  had  found  a  little  lawn,  guarded  by 
great  rocks,  out  of  every  cranny  of  which  the  ashes  grew  as 
freely  as  on  flat  ground.  Their  feet  were  bedded  deep  in 
sweet  fern  and  wild  raspberries,  and  golden-rod,  and  purple 
scabious,  and  tall  blue  campanulas.  Above  them,  and  be- 
fore them,  and  below  them,  the  ashes  shook  their  green  fili- 
gree in  the  bright  sunshine  :  and  through  them  glimpses 
were  seen  of  the  purple  clifls  above,  and,  right  in  front,  of 
the  great  cataract  of  Nant  Gwynnant,  a  long  snow-white 
line  zig-zagging  down  coal-black  cliffs  for  many  a  hundred 
feet,  and  above  it,  depth  beyond  depth  of  purple  shadow 
away  into  the  very  heart  of  Snowdon,  up  the  long  valley  of 
Cwm-dyli,  to  the  great  amphitheatre  of  Clogwyn-y-Garnedd ; 
while  over  all  the  cone  of  Snowdon  rose,  in  perfect  symme- 
try, between  his  attendant  peaks  of  Lliwedd  and  Crib  Coch. 

There  they  sat,  and  laughed,  and  talked,  the  pleasant 
summer  afternoon,  in  their  pleasant  sunmier  bower:  and 
never  regretted  the  silence  of  the  birds,  so  sweetly  did 
Valencia's  song  go  up,  in  many  a  rich  sad  Irish  melody  ; 
while  the  lowing  of  the  milch  kine,  and  the  wild  cooing  of 
the  herd-boys,  came  softly  up  from  the  vale  below,  "and  all 
the  air  was  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of  waters." 

Then  Claude  must  needs  photograph  them  all,  as  they 
eat,  and  group  them  first  according  to  his  fancy  ;  and  among 
his  fancies  was  one,  that  Valencia  should  sit  as  queen,  with 
Headley  and  the  major  at  her  feet.     And  Headley  lounged 

(379) 


880  BOTU   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON    AT   ONCE. 

there,  and  looked  into  tlie  grass,  and  thought  it  well  foi 
him  could  he  lie  there  forever. 

Then  Chiude  must  pliotograph  the  mountain  itself;  and 
all  began  to  talk  of  it. 

"See  the  breadth  of  light  and  sliadow,"  said  Claude; 
"  how  the  purple  depth  of  the  great  hip  of  the  mountain  is 
thrown  back  by  the  sheet  of  green  liglit  on  Lliwedd,  and 
the  red  glory  on  the  clifls  of  Crib  Coch,  till  you  seem  to  look 
away  into  the  bosom  of  the  hill,  mile  after  mile." 

"  And  so  you  do,"  said  Ileadley.  "  1  have  learnt  to  dis- 
tinguish mountain  distances  since  I  have  been  here.  That 
peak  is  four  miles  from  us  now  ;  and  yet  the  shadow^ed  cliffs 
at  its  foot  seem  double  that  distance." 

"And  look,  look,"  said  Valencia,  "at  the  long  line  of 
glor}'  Mnth  which  the  western  sun  is  gilding  the  edge  of  the 
left-hand  slope,  bringing  it  nearer  and  nearer  to  us  every 
moment,  against  the  deep  blue  sky  !  " 

"  But  what  a  form  !  Perfect  lightness,  perfect  symme- 
try !  "  said  Claude.  "  Curve  sweeping  over  curve,  peak 
towering  over  peak,  to  the  highest  point,  and  then  sinking 
down  again  as  gracefully  as  they  I'ose.  One  can  hardly 
help  fancjdng  that  the  mountain  moves,  that  those  dancing 
lines  are  not  instinct  with  life." 

"  At  least,"  said  Headley,  "  that  the  mountain  is  a  leap- 
ing wave,  frozen  just  ere  it  fell." 

"Perfect!"  said  Valencia.  "That  is  the  very  expres- 
sion !     So  concise,  and  3'et  so  complete !  " 

And  Headley,  poor  fool,  felt  as  happy  as  if  he  had  found 
a  gold  mine. 

"To  me,"  said  Elsley,  "the  fancy  rises  of  some  great 
Kastern  monarch  sitting  in  royal  state  ;  with  ample  shoul- 
ders sloping  right  and  left,  he  lays  his  purple-mantled  arms 
upon  the  heads  of  two  of  those  Titan  guards  who  stand  on 
either  side  his  footstool." 

"  Whilo  from  beneath  his  throne,"  said  Ileadley,  "as 
Eastern  poets  would  say,  flow  everlasting  streams,  life- 
giving,  to  fertilize  broad  lands  below." 

"  1  did  not  know  that  you,  too,  were  a  poet,"  said 
Valencia. 

"  Nor  T,  madam.  But  if  such  scenes  as  these,  and  in 
Bifch  company,  cannot  inspire  the  fancy  even  of  a  poor 
country  curate  to  something  of  exaltation,  he  must  be  dull 
indeed." 

"  Why  not  put  some  of  these  thoughts  into  poetry  ?  " 

"  What  use  ? "  answered  he,  in  so  low,  sad,  and  meaning 


BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE.  381 

a  tone,  meant  only  for  her  ear,  that  Valencia  looked  down 
at  him ;  but  he  was  gazing  intently  upon  the  glorious 
scene.  Was  he  hinting  at  the  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit 
of  poor  Elsley's  versifying  ?  Or  did  he  mean  that  lie  had 
now  no  purpose  in  life,  no  prize  for  which  it  was  worth 
while  to  win  honor  ? 

She  did  not  answer  him  ;  but  he  answered  himself —  per- 
haps to  explain  away  his  own  speech,  — 

"  No,  madam  I  God  has  written  the  poetry  already,  and 
there  it  is  before  me.  My  business  is,  not  to  re-write  it 
clumsily,  but  to  read  it  humbly,  and  give  Ilim  thanks 
for  it.'' 

More  and  more  had  Valencia  been  attracted  by  Headley 
during  the  last  few  weeks.  Accustomed  to  men  who  tried 
to  make  the  greatest  possible  show  of  what  small  wits  they 
possessed,  she  was  surprised  to  find  one  who  seemed  to 
think  it  a  duty  to  keep  his  knowledge  and  taste  in  the 
background.  She  gave  him  credit  for  more  talent  than 
appeared  ;  for  more,  perhaps,  than  he  really  had.  She  was 
piqued,  too,  at  his  very  modesty  and  selt-restraint.  Why 
did  not  he,  like  tlie  rest  who  dangled  about  her,  spread  out 
his  peacock's  train  for  her  eyes,  and  try  to  show  his  wor- 
ship of  her  by  setting  himself  oft"  in  his  brightest  colors  ? 
And  yet  this  modesty  awed  her  into  respect  of  him,  for  she 
could  not  forget  that,  whether  he  had  sentiment  much  or 
Httle,  sentiment  was  not  the  staple  of  his  manhood  ;  she 
could  not  forget  his  cholera  work  ;  and  she  knew  that, 
under  that  delicate  and  bashful  outside  lay  virtue  and  hero- 
ism, enough  and  to  spare. 

"But,  if  you  put  these  thoughts  into  words,  you  would 
teach  others  to  read  that  poetry." 

"  My  business  is  to  teach  people  to  do  right;  and,  if  I 
cannot,  to  pray  God  to  find  some  one  who  can." 

"Right,  Headley!"  said  Major  Campbell,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  curate's  shoulder.  "  God  dwells  no  more  in 
books  written  with  pens  than  in  temples  made  with  hands  ; 
and  the  sacrifice  which  pleases  Him  is  not  verse,  but  right- 
eousness. Do  you  recollect,  Queen  Whims,  what  I  wrote 
once  in  your  album  ? 

♦  Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever. 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long  ; 
So  making  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever. 
One  grind,  sweet  song.'  " 

"  But,  you  naughty,  hypocritical  Saint  Pere,.  you  wr'te 
poetry  yourself,  and  beautifully." 


382  BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

"  Yes,  as  I  smoke  my  cigar,  to  comfort  my  poorrhcumatio 
old  soul.  But  if  1  lived  only  to  write  poetry  1  should  think 
myself  as  wise  as  if  I  lived  only  to  smoke  tobacco." 

Valencia's  eyes  could  not  help  glancing  at  Elsley,  who 
had  wandered  away  to  the  neigliboring  brook,  and  was  gaz- 
ing with  all  his  eyes  upon  a  ferny  rock,  having  left  Lucia  to 
help  Claude  with  his  photographing. 

Frank  saw  her  look,  and  read  its  meaning,  and  answered 
her  thoughts,  perhaps  too  hastily,  — 

"  And  what  a  really  well-read  and  agreeable  man  he  is, 
all  the  while  !  What  a  mine  of  quaint  learning,  and  beauti- 
ful old  legend  I  If  he  would  but  bring  it  into  the  common 
stock,  for  every  one's  amusement,  instead  of  hoarding  it  up 
for  himself  I  " 

"  Why,  what  else  does  he  do  but  bring  it  into  the  commou 
stock,  when  he  publishes  a  book  which  every  one  can 
read?  "  said  Valencia,  half  out  of  the  spirit  of  contradiction. 

"  And  few  understand,"  said  Headley,  quietly. 

"  You  are  very  unjust ;  he  is  a  very  discerning  and  agree- 
able person,  and  I  shall  go  and  talk  to  him."  And  away 
went  Valencia  to  Elsley,  somewhat  cross.  AVoman-like, 
she  allowed,  for  the  sake  of  her  sister's  honor,  no  one  but 
herself  to  depreciate  Vavasour,  and  chose  to  think  it  imper- 
tinent on  Ileadley's  part. 

Ileadley  began  quietly  talking  to  Major  Campbell  about 
botany,  while  Valencia,  a  little  ashamed  of  herself  all  the 
while,  took  her  revenge  on  Elsley  by  scolding  him  for  his 
unsocial  ways,  in  the  very  terms  which  Headley  had  been 
using. 

At  last  Claude,  having  finished  his  photographing,  de- 
parted downward  to  get  some  new  view  from  the  road 
below,  and  Lucia  returned  to  the  rest  of  the  party.  Valencia 
joined  them  at  once,  bringing  up  Elsley,  who  was  not  in  the 
best  of  humors  after  her  diatribes  ;  and  the  whole  party  wan- 
dered about  the  woodland,  and  scrambled  down  beside  the 
torrent-beds. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  point  where  they  could  descer  d 
no  further;  for  the  stream,  falling  over  a  cliff,  had  worn 
itself  a  narrow  chasm  in  the  rock,  and  thundered  down  it 
into  a  deep  narrow  pool. 

Lucia,  who  was  basking  in  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers 
as  siin|)ly  as  a  child,  would  needs  peep  over  the  brink,  a,nd 
made  Elsley  hold  her  while  she  looked  down,  A  quiet  hap- 
piness, as  of  old  recollections,  came  into  her  eyes,  as  she 
watched  the  sparkling  and  foaming  water  : 


BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT    ONCE.  383 

"  And  beauty,  born  of  marmuring  sound, 
Did  pass  into  her  face." 

Campbell  started.  The  Lucia  of  seven  years  ago  seemed 
to  bloom  out  again  in  that  pale  face  and  wrinkled  forehead  ; 
and  a  smile  came  over  his  face,  too,  as  he  looked. 

"  Just  like  the  dear  old  waterfall  at  Kilanbaggan,  You 
recollect  it,  Major  Campbell?  " 

Elsley  always  disliked  recollections  of  Kilanbaggan  ;  rec- 
ollections of  her  life  before  he  knew  her ;  recollections  of 
pleasures  ia  which  he  had  not  shared  ;  especially  recollec- 
tions of  her  old  acquaintance  with  the  major. 

"  I  do  not,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,"  replied  the  major. 

"  Why,  you  were  there  a  whole  summer.  Ah  !  I  sup- 
pose you  thought  about  nothing  but  your  salmon-fishing. 
If  Elsley  had  been  there  he  would  not  have  forgotten  a 
rock  or  a  pool  ;  would  you,  Elsley  ?  " 

"  Really,  in  spite  of  all  salmon,  I  have  not  forgotten  a 
rock  or  a  pool  about  the  place  which.  I  ever  saw  ;  but  at  the 
waterfall  I  never  was." 

"  So  he  has  not  forgotten  ?  What  cause  had  he  to 
remember  so  carefully  ?  "  thought  Elsley. 

"0,  Elsley,  look  !  What  is  that  exquisite  flower,  like  a 
ball  of  gold,  hanging  just  over  the  water  ?  " 

If  Elsley  had  not  had  the  evil  spirit  haunting  about  him, 
he  would  have  joined  in  Lucia's  admiration  of  the  beautiful 
creature,  as  it  drooped  into  the  foam  from  its  narrow  ledge, 
with  its  fcin  of  palmate  leaves  bright  green,  against  the 
black  mosses  of  the  rock,  and  its  golden  petals  glowing  like 
a  tiny  sun  in  the  darkness  of  the  chasm.  As  it  was,  he 
answered,  — 

"  Onl}^  a  buttercup." 

"I  am  sure  it's  not  a  buttercup!  It  is  three  times  as 
large,  and  a  so  much  paler  yellow  I  Is  it  a  buttercup, 
now,  Major  Campbell  ?  " 

Campbell  looked  down. 

"  Very  nearly  one,  after  all ;  but  its  real  name  is  the  globe 
flower.  It  is  common  enough  here  in  spring  :  you  may  see 
the  leaves  in  every  pasture.  But  I  suppose  this  plant,  hid- 
den from  the  light,  has  kept  its  flowers  till  the  autumn." 

"  And  till  I  came  to  see  it,  darling  that  it  is  !  I  snould 
like  to  reward  it  by  wearing  it  home." 

"  I  dare  say  it  would  be  very  proud  of  the  honor  ;  espe- 
cially if  Mr.  Vavasour  would  embalm  it  in  verse,  after  it 
bad  done  service  to  you." 


384  BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT    ONCE. 

"  It  is  doing  good  enough  service  where  it  is,"  said  Els- 
ley.  "  ^Vhy  pluck  out  the  very  eye  of  that  p(jr{ect 
picture  V 

"Strange,"  said  Lucia,  "that  such  a  beautiful  thing 
should  be  born  there  all  alone  upon  these  rocks,  with  no 
one  to  look  at  it." 

"  It  enjoys  itself  sufficiently  without  us,  no  doubt,"  said 
Elsley. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  want  to  enjoy  it.  0,  if  you  could  but  get 
it  for  me  !  " 

Elsley  looked  down.  There  was  fifteen  feet  of  somewhat 
slippery  rock,  then  a  ragged  ledge  a  foot  broad,  in  a  crack 
of  which  the  fiower  grew,  then  the  dark  boiling  pool.  Els- 
ley shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said,  smiling,  as  if  it  were 
a  fine  thing  to  say:  "  Really,  my  dear,  all  men  are  not 
knight  errants  enough  to  endanger  their  necks  for  a  bit  of 
weed  ;  and  I  cannot  say  that  such  rough  tours  de  force  are 
at  all  to  my  fancy." 

Lucia  turned  away  ;  but  she  was  vexed.  Campbell  could 
see  that  a  strange  fancy  for  the  plant  had  seized  her.  As 
she  walked  from  the  spot,  he  could  hear  her  talking  about 
its  beauty  to  Valencia. 

Campbell's  blood  boiled.  To  be  asked  by  that  woman  — 
by  any  woman  —  to  get  her  that  flower,  — and  to  be  afraid  I 
It  was  bad  enough  to  be  ill-tempered  ;  but  to  be  a  coward, 
and  to  be  proud  thereof!  He  yielded  to  a  temptation  which 
he  had  much  better  have  left  alone,  seeing  that  Lucia  had 
not  asked  him,  swung  himself  easily  enough  down  the 
ledge,  got  the  flower,  and  put  it,  quietly  bowing,  into  Mrs. 
Vavasour's  hand, 

lie  was  frightened  when  he  had  done  it ;  for  he  saw,  to 
his  surprise,  that  she  was  frightened.  She  took  the  fiower, 
smiling  thanks,  and  expressing  a  little  common-place  horror 
and  astonishment  at  his  having  gone  down  such  a  danger- 
ous clifi';  but  she  took  it  to  Elsley,  drew  his  arm  through 
hers,  and  seemed  determined  to  make  as  much  of  him  as 
possible  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  "The  fellow  was 
j'^alous,  then,  in  addition  to  his  other  sins!"  And  Canip- 
lell,  who  felt  tliat  he  had  put  himself  unnecessarily  forward 
1  etween  husband  and  wife,  grew  more  and  more  angry  ; 
and  somehow,  unlike  his  usual  wont,  refused  to  confess 
himself  in  the  wrong,  because  he  was  in  the  wrong.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  not  yjleasant  for  poor  Elsley  ;  and  so  Lucia 
felt,  and  bore  with  him  when  he  refused  to  be  comforted, 
and  rendered  blessing  for  railing  when  he  said  to  h(!r  more 


BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT    ONCE.  385 

tban  one  angry  word  ;  but  she  had  become  accustomed  to 
angry  words  by  this  time. 

AH  might  have  passed  off,  but  for  that  careless  Valencia, 
who  had  not  seen  the  details  of  what  had  passed,  and  so 
advised  herself  to  ask  where  Lucia  got  that  beautiful  plant  ? 

"Major  Campbell  picked  it  for  her  from  the  cliff,"  said 
Elsley,  dryly. 

"  Ah  ?  at  the  risk  of  his  neck,  I  don't  doubt.  He  is  the 
most  matchless  cavalier  servente." 

"  1  shall  leave  Mrs.  Vavasour  to  his  care,  then,  that  is, 
for  the  present,"  said  Elsley,  drawing  his  arm  from  Lucia's. 

"  I  assure  you,"  answered  she,  roused  in  her  turn  by  his 
determined  bad  temper,  "  I  am  not  the  least  afraid  at  being 
left  in  the  charge  of  so  old  a  friend." 

Elsley  made  no  answer,  but  sprang  down  through  the 
thickets,  calling  loudly  to  Claude  Mellot. 

It  was  very  naughty  of  Lucia,  no  doubt  ;  but  even  a 
worm  will  turn,  and  thei-e  are  times  when  people  who  have 
not  courage  to  hold  their  peace  must  say  something  or 
other,  and  do  not  always,  in  the  hurry,  get  out  what  they 
ought,  but  only  what  they  have  time  to  think  of  And  she 
forgot  what  she  had  said  the  next  minute,  in  Major  Camp- 
bell's question,  — 

"  Am  I,  then,  so  old  a  friend,  Mrs.  Vavasour  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ;  who  older  ?  " 

Campbell  was  silent  a  moment.  If  he  was  inclined  to 
choke,  at  least  Lucia  did  not  see  it. 

"I  trust  I  have  not  offended  your  —  Mr.  Vavasour  ?  " 

"0!"  she  said  with  forced  gayety,  "only  one  of  his 
poetic  fancies.  He  wanted  so  mij^h  to  see  Mr.  Mellot 
photograph  the  waterfall.  I  hope  he  will  be  in  time  to  find 
him." 

"I  am  a  plain  soldier,  Mrs.  Vavasour,  and  I  only  ask 
because  I  do  not  understand.     What  are  poetic  fancies  ?  " 

Lucia  looked  up  in  his  face,  puzzled,  and  saw  there  an 
expression  so  grave,'  pitying,  tender,  that  her  heart  leaped 
up  toward  him,  and  then  sank  back  again. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  Why  need  you  know  ?  You  are 
no  poet." 

"  And  for  that  very  cause  I  asked  you." 

"0,  but,"  said  she,  guessing  at  what  was  ia  his  mind, 
and  trying,  woman-like,  to  play  purposely  at  cross  purposes, 
and  to  defend  her  husband  at  all  risks  ;  "  he  has  an  extraor- 
dinary poetic  faculty  ;  all  the  world  agrees  to  that.  Major 
Campbell." 

33 


886  BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

"  What  matter  ?  "  said  he.  Lucia  would  have  been  ver» 
angry,  and,  perhaps,  ought  to  havj  been  so  ;  lor  what  busi- 
ness of  Campbell's  was  it  whether  her  husband  were  kind 
to  her  or  not  ?  But  there  was  a  deep  sadness,  almost 
despair,  in  the  tone,  which  disarmed  her. 

"  0,  Major  Campbell,  is  it  not  a  glorious  thing  to  be  a 
poet  ?  And  is  it  not  a  glorious  thing  to  be  a  poet's  wife  ? 
0,  for  the  sake  of  that  —  if  1  could  l)ut  see  him  honored, 
appreciated,  famous,  as  he  will  be  some  day  !  Though  I 
think"  (and  she  spoke  with  all  a  woman's  pride)  "he  is 
somewhat  famous  now,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Famous  '{  Yes,"  answered  Campbell,  with  an  abstracted 
voice,  and  then  rejoined,  quickly,  "if  you  could  but  see 
that,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  tiien,"  said  she,  with  a  half  smile  (for  she  had 
nearly  entrapped  herself  in  an  admission  of  what  she  was 
determined  to  conceal),  "why,  then,  I  should  be  still  more 
what  I  am  now,  his  devoted  little  wife,  who  cares  for  nobody 
and  nothing  but  putting  his  study  to  rights,  and  bringing 
up  his  children." 

"Happy  children  !  "  said  he,  after  a  pause,  and  half  to 
himself,  "  who  have  such  a  mother  to  bring  them  up." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?  But  flattery  used  not  to  be 
one  of  3'our  sins.  Ah,  I  wish  you  could  give  me  some 
advice  about  how  I  am  to  teach  them." 

"So  it  is  she  who  has  the  work  of  education,  not  he  !  " 
thought  Campbell  to  himself;  and  then  answered,  gayly, — 

"  M}^  dear  madam,  what  can  a  confirmed  old  bachelor 
like  me  know  about  children  'I  " 

"  0,  don't  you  know  "  (and  she  gave  one  of  her  pretty 
Irish  laughs)  "that  it  is  the  old  maids  who  always  write 
the  children's  books,  for  the  benefit  of  us  poor  ignorant 
married  women  ?  But"  (and  she  spoke  earnestly  again) 
"  we  all  know  how  wise  and  good  you  are.  I  did  not  know 
it  in  old  times.  I  am  afraid  I  used  to  torment  you  when  I 
was  young  and  fi)olish." 

"  Where  on  earth  can  Mellot  and  Mr.  Vavasour  be  ?  *' 
asked  Campbell. 

"  0,  never  mind  ;  Mr.  Mellot  has  gone  wandering  down 
the  glen  with  his  apparatus,  and  my  Elsley  has  gone  wan- 
dering after  him,  and  will  find  him  in  due  time,  with  hia 
head  in  a  black  bag,  and  a  great  bull  just  going  to  charge 
him  from  behind,  like  that  hapless  man  in  'Punch.'  I 
always  tell  Mr.  Mellot  that  will  be  his  end." 

Campbell  was  deeply  shocked  to  hoar  the  light  tone  in 


BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE.  381 

which  she  talked  of  the  passionate  temper  of  a  man  whom 
she  so  surely  loved.  How  many  outbursts  of  it  there  must 
have  been  ;  how  many  paroxysms  of  astonishment,  shame, 
grief,  —  p'^rhaps,  alas  !  counter-bursts  of  auger,  —  ere  that 
heart  could  have  become  thus  proof  against  the  ever-lower- 
ing thunderstorm  ! 

"  Well  !  "  he  said,  "  all  we  can  do  is  to  walk  down  to  the 
car,  and  let  them  follow  ;  and,  meanwhile,  I  will  give  you 
my  wise  opinion  about  this  education  question,  whereof  I 
know  nothing." 

"  It  will  be  all  oracular  to  me,  for  I  know  nothing  either  ;  " 
and  she  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  walked  on. 

"Did  you  hurt  yourself  then?  I  am  sure  you  are  in 
pain." 

"1?  Never  less  free  from  it,  with  many  thanks  to  you. 
What  made  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  heard  you  breathe  so  hard,  and  quite  stamp  your  feet, 
I  thought.     I  suppose  it  was  fancy." 

It  was  not  fancy,  nevertheless.  Major  Campbell  was 
stamping  down  something  ;  and  succeeded,  too,  in  crush 
ing  it. 

They  walked  on  towards  the  car,  Valencia  and  Headley 
following  them  ;  ere  they  arrived  at  the  place  where  they 
were  to  meet  it,  it  was  quite  dark  ;  but,  what  was  more 
important,  the  car  was  not  there. 

"The  stupid  man  must  have  mistaken  his  orders,  and 
gone  home." 

"  Or  let  his  horse  go  home  of  itself,  while  he  was  asleep 
inside.     He  was  more  than  half  tipsy  when  we  started." 

So  spoke  the  major,  divining  the  exact  truth.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  walk  the  four  miles  home, 
and  let  the  two  truants  follow  as  they  could. 

"  We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  for  our  educational 
lecture,"  said  Lucia. 

"  Plenty  of  time  to  waste,  then,  my  dear  lady." 

"  0,  I  never  talk  with  you  five  minutes  —  I  do  not  know 
why  —  without  feeling  wiser  and  happier.  I  envy  Valencia 
for  having  seen  so  much  of  you  of  late." 

Little  thought  poor  Lucia,  as  she  spoke  those  innocent 
words,  that  within  four  yards  of  her,  crouched  behind  the 
wall,  his  face  and  every  limb  writhing  with  mingled  curiosity 
and  rage,  was  none  other  but  her  husband. 

He  had  given  place  to  the  devil  ;  and  the  devil  (for  the 
"  superstitious  "  and  "  old-world  "  notion  which  attributaa 
Buch  frenzies  to  the  devil  has  not  yet  been  superseded  by  a 


S88  BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

better  one)  had  ent(?red  into  liim,  and  concentrated  all  thfl 
evil  habits  and  passions  wliich  he  had  indulged  for  years 
into  one  flaming  hell  within  him. 

Miserable  man'  His  torments  were  sevenfold;  and,  if 
ne  had  sinned,  ho  was  at  least  punished.  Not  merely  by 
all  which  a  hue bnnd  has  a  right  to  feel  in  such  a  case,  or 
fancies  that  he  has  a  right  ;  not  merely  by  tortured  vanity 
and  self-conceit,  by  the  agony  of  seeing  any  man  pref(;rre(l 
to  him,  which,  to  a  man  of  Elsley's  character,  was  of  itself 
unbearable  ;  not  merely  by  the  loss  of  trust  in  (me  whom 
he  had  once  trusted  utterly  ;  but,  over  and  above  all,  and 
worst  of  all,  by  the  i'ecling  of  shame,  self-reproach,  and  sell- 
hatred,  which  haunts  a  jealous  man,  and  which  ought  to 
haunt  him,  —  for  few  men  luse  the  love  of  women  who  have 
once  loved  them,  save  by  their  own  folly  or  baseness  ;  by 
the  recollection  that  he  had  traded  on  her  trust ;  that  he 
had  drugged  his  own  conscience  with  the  fancy  that  she 
must  love  him  alwa3's,  let  him  do  what  he  would  ;  and  had 
neglected  and  insulted  her  affection,  because  he  had  landed, 
in  his  conceit,  that  it  was  inalienable.  And  with  the  loss 
of  self-respect  came  recklessness  of  it,  and  drove  him  on,  as 
it  has  jealous  men  in  all  ages,  to  meannesses  unspeakable, 
which  have  made  them  for  centuries,  poor  wretches,  the 
butts  of  worthless  playwrights,  and  the  scorn  of  their  fellow- 
men. 

Elsley  had  wandered,  he  hardly  knew  how  or  whither, 
—  for  his  calling  to  Mellot  was  the  merest  blind,  —  stumbling 
over  rocks,  bruising  himself  against  tree-trunks,  to  this 
wall.  He  knew  they  must  pass  it.  He  waited  for  them, 
and  had  his  reward.  Blind  with  rage,  he  hardly  waited  for 
the  sound  of  their  footsteps  to  die  away,  before  he  had 
sprung  into  the  road,  and  hurried  up  it  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion,—  anywhere,  everywhere,  to  escape  from  them  and 
from  self.  Whipt  by  the  furies,  he  fled  along  the  road  and 
up  the  vale,  he  cared  not  whither. 

And  what  were  Headley  and  Valencia,  who,  of  necessity, 
had  paired  ofi"  together,  doing  all  the  while  ? 

They  walked  on  silently  side  by  side  for  ten  minutes  ; 
then  Frank  said,  — 

"  I  have  been  impertinent,  Miss  St.  Just,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"No,  you  have  not,"  said  she,  quite  hastily.  "You 
were  right,  too  right ;  has  it  Jiot  been  proved  in  the  last 
five   minutes  ?      My  poor   sister  1     What  cau  be  done  to 


BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON    AT    ONCE.  389 

Inend  Mr.  Vavasour's  temper  ?  I  wish  you  could  talk  to 
liim,  Mr.  Ileadley." 

"  He  is  bej^ond  my  art.  His  age,  aud  his  talents,  and 
his --his  consciousness  of  them,"  said  Frank,  using-  the 
mildest  term  he  could  find,  "  would  prevent  so  insignificant 
a  person  as  me  having  any  influence.  But  what  1  cannot 
do,  God's  grace  may." 

"  Can  it  change  a  man's  character,  Mr.  Headley  ?  It  may 
taake  good  men  better  —  but  can  it  cure  temper  ?  " 

"  Major  Campbell  must  have  told  you  that  it  can  do  any- 
thing." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  with  men  as  wise,  and  strong,  and  noble  as  he 
is  ;  but  with  such  a  weak,  vain  man  —  " 

"  Miss  St.  Just,  I  know  one  who  is  neither  wise,  nor 
strong,  nor  noble,  but  as  weak  and  vain  as  any  man,  in 
whom  God  has  conquered  —  as  He  may  conquer  yet  in  Mr. 
Vavasour  —  all  which  makes  man  cling  to  life." 

"What,  all?"  asked  she,  suspecting,  and  not  wrongly, 
that  he  spoke  of  himself. 

"  All,  1  suppose,  which  it  is  good  for  them  to  have  crushed. 
There  are  feelings  which  last  on,  in  spite  of  all  struggles 
to  quench  them  —  I  suppose,  because  they  ought  to  last; 
because,  while  they  torture,  they  will  ennoble.  Death  will 
quench  them  ;  or,  if  not,  satisfy  them  ;  or,  if  not,  set  them  at 
rest  somehow." 

"  Death  ?  "  answered  she,  in  a  startled  tone. 

"  Yes.  Our  friend,  Major  Campbell's  friend.  Death.  We 
have  been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  him  together  lately,  and 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  the  most  useful, 
pleasant,  and  instructive  of  all  friends." 

"  0,  Mr.  Headley,  do  not  speak  so  1  Are  you  in  ear- 
nest ?  " 

"  So  much  in  earnest,  that  I  have  resolved  to  go  out  as  an 
army  chaplain  ;  to  see  in  the  war  somewhat  more  of  my 
new  friend." 

"Impossible!  Mr.  Headley;  it  will  kill  you!  All  that 
horrible  fever  and  cholera  !  " 

"  And  what  possible  harm  can  it  do  me,  if  it  does  kill  me, 
Miss  St.  Just?" 

"Mr.  Headley,  this  is  madness!  I  —  we  cannot  allow 
you  to  throw  away  your  life  thus  —  so  young,  and  —  and 
such  prospects  before  you  !  And  there  is  nothing  that 
my  brother  would  not  do  for  you,  were  it  only  for  vour 
Ueroism  at  Aberalva.  There  is  not  one  of  the  family  who 
38* 


390  BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

does  not  love  and  respect  you,  and  long  to  see  all  ihe  world 
appreciating-  you  as  we  do  ;  and  your  poor  mother —  " 

"  I  have  told  my  ujother  all,  Miss  St.  Just.  And  sheliaa 
said,  '  Go  ;  it  is  your  oidy  hope.'  She  has  other  sons  to 
comfort  her.  Let  us  say  no  more  of  it.  Had  I  thought  that 
you  would  have  disapproved  of  it,  1  would  never  have  men- 
tioned the  thing." 

"Disapprove  of — your  going  to  die?  You  shall  not! 
And  for  me,  too  ;  for  1  guess  all  —  all  is  my  fault  !  " 

"  All  is  mine,"  said  he,  quietly  ;  "  who  was  fool  enough 
to  fancy  that  I  could  forget  you  —  conquer  my  love  for 
you  ;  "  and,  at  these  words,  his  whole  voice  and  manner 
changed  in  an  instant  into  wildest  passion.  "  I  must 
speak  !  —  now  and  never  more  —  I  love  you  still,  fool  that 
1  am  !  Would  God  1  had  never  seen  you  !  No,  not  that. 
Thank  God  lor  that  to  the  last ;  but  would  God  I  had  died 
of  that  cholera  !  that  I  had  never  come  here,  conceited  fool 
that  I  was,  fancying  that  it  was  possible,  after  having  once 
—  No  !  Let  me  go,  go  anywhere,  where  I  may  burden 
you  no  more  with  my  absurd  dreams !  You,  who  have 
had  the  same  thing  said  to  you,  and  in  finer  words,  a  hun- 
dred times,  by  men  who  would  not  deign  to  speak  to 
me  !  "  And,  covering  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  strode  on,  as 
if  to  escape. 

"  I  never  had  the  aame  thing  said  to  me  !  " 

"  Never  ?  How  often  have  fine  gentlemen,  noblemen, 
Bworn  that  they  were  dying  for  you  ?  " 

"  They  never  have  said  to  me  what  you  have  done." 

"No  —  I  am  clumsy,  I  suppose  —  " 

"  Mr.  Headley,  indeed  you  are  unjust  to  yourself — unjust 
to  me  !  " 

"I  —  to  you  ?  Never  I  I  know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself — see  in  you  what  no  one  else  sees.  0,  what  fools 
they  are  who  say  that  love  is  blind  I  Blind  ?  He  sees  souls 
with  God's  own  light ;  not  as  they  have  become  ;  but  as 
they  ought  to  become  —  can  become  —  are  already  in  the 
Bight  of  Him  who  made  them  !  " 

"  And  what  might  I  become  ?  "  asked  she,  half  frightened 
by  the  new  earnestness  of  his  utterance. 

"  How  can  1  tell  ?  Something  infinitely  too  high  for  me, 
at  least,  who  even  now  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  the  dust  off 
your  feet." 

"0,  do  not  speak  so;  Httle  do  you  know  —  I  No,  Mr 
Eeadley,  it  is  you  who  are  too  good   for  me  ;  too  noble, 


BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE    MOON   AT   ONCE.  391 

Bingle-eyed,  self-sacrificing,  to  endure  my  vanity  and  mean« 
ness  f  )r  a  day," 

"  MadaiQ,  do  not  speak  thus !  Give  me  no  word  which 
my  folly  can  distort  into  a  ray  of  hope,  unless  you  wish  to 
drive  nie  mad.  No  !  it  is  impussible  ;  and,  were  it  possible, 
what  but  ruin  t.-  my  soul !  I  should  live  for  you,  and  not  fur 
my  work.  I  should  become  a  schemer,  ambitious,  intriguing, 
in  the  vain  hope  of  proving  myself  to  the  world  worthy  of 
you.  No  ;  let  it  be.  *  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead,  and 
follow  thou  me.'" 

She  made  no  answer  —  what  answer  was  there  to  make  ? 
And  he  strode  on  by  her  side  in  silence  for  full  ten  minutes. 
At  last  she  was  forced  to  speak. 

"  Mr.  Headley,  recollect  that  this  conversation  has 
gone  too  far  for  us  to  avoid  coming  to  some  definite  under- 
standing —  " 

"  Then  it  shall.  Miss  St.  Just.  Then  it  shall,  once  and 
for  all ;  formally  and  deliberately,  it  shall  end  now.  Sup- 
pose—  I  only  say  suppose — that  I  could,  without  fail- 
ing in  my  own  honor,  my  duty  to  my  calling,  make 
myself  such  a  name  among  good  men  that,  poor  parson 
though  I  be,  your  family  need  be  ashamed  of  nothing  about 
me,  save  my  poverty  ?  Tell  me,  now  and  forever,  could  it 
be  possible  —  " 

He  stopped.     She  walked  on,  silent,  in  her  turn. 

"  Say  no,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  end  it  I  "  said  he,  bit- 
terly. 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  heaving  off  a  weight. 

"  I  cannot —  dare  not  say  it." 

"  It  ?     Which  of  the  two  ?   yes,  or  no  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

He  stopped,  and  spoke  slowly  and  calmly.  "  Say  that 
again,  and  tell  me  that  I  am  not  dreaming.  You  ?  the  ad- 
mired !  the  worshipped  I  the  luxurious  !  —  and  no  blame  to 
you  that  you  are  what  you  were  born  —  could  you  endure 
a  little  parsonage,  the  teaching  village  school-children,  tend- 
ing dirty  old  women,  and  petty  cares  for  all  the  whole  yeai 
round  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Headley,"  answered  she,  slowly  and  calmly,  in  hei 
turn,  "I  could  endure  a  cottage, — a  prison,  I  fancy,  at 
moments,  —  to  escape  from  this  world,  of  which  I  am  tired, 
which  will  soon  be  tired  of  me  ;  from  women  who  envy  me, 
impute  to  me  ambitions  as  base  as  their  own  ;  from  men  who 
admire  —  not  me,  for  they  do  not  know  me,  and  never  will 
K  -  but  what  in  me  —  I  hate  them  I  —  will  givo  them  pleas- 


392  BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON    AT   ONCE. 

ure.  I  hate  it  all,  despise  it  all  ;  despise  myself  for  it  all 
every  morning-  when  1  wake  !  What  does  it  do  for  me,  but 
rouse  in  me  the  very  parts  of  my  own  character  which  are 
most  despicable,  most  tormenting?  If  it  goes  on,  1  ieel  I 
could  become  as  frivolous,  as  mean,  ay,  as  wicked  as  the 
worst.  You  do  not  know  —  you  do  not  know — .  1  have 
envied  the  nuns  their  convents.  I  have  envied  Selkirk  his 
desert  island.  I  envy  now  the  milkmaids  there  below  ;  any- 
thing to  escape  and  be  in  earnest,  anything  for  some  one  to 
teach  me  to  be  of  use  !  Yes,  this  cholera, — and  this  war 
—  though  only,  only  its  coming  shadow  has  passed  over 
me,  —  and  your  words  too,"  —  cried  she,  and  stopped  and 
hesitated,  as  if  afraid  to  tell  too  much  —  "they  have 
wakened  me  —  to  a  new  life  —  at  least  to  the  dream  of  a 
new  life  !  " 

"  Ilave  you  not  Major  Campbell  ?  "  said  Ileadley,  with  a 
terrible  effort  of  will. 

"  Yes  ;  but  has  he  taught  me  ?  He  is  dear,  and  good,  and 
wise  ;  but  he  is  too  wise,  too  great  for  me.  He  plays  with 
me  as  a  lion  might  with  a  mouse  ;  he  is  like  a  grand  angel 
far  above  in  another  planet,  who  can  pity  and  advise,  but 
who  cannot —  What  am  1  saying?"  and  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hand. 

She  dropped  her  glove  as  she  did  so.  Headley  picked  it 
up  and  gave  it  to  her  ;  as  he  did  so  their  hands  met,  and 
their  hands  did  not  part  again, 

"  You  know  that  I  love  you,  Valencia  St.  Just  I  " 

"  Too  well !  too  well  !  " 

"  But  you  know,  too,  that  you  do  not  love  me." 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?  What  do  you  know  ?  What  do 
I  know  ?  Only  that  1  long  for  some  one  to  make  me  — 
to  make  me  as  good  as  you  are  !  "  And  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Valencia,  will  you  trust  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  cried  she,  looking  up  at  him  suddenly  ;  "  if  you 
will  not  go  to  the  war." 

"  No  —  no  — no  !  Would  you  have  me  turn  traitor  and 
coward  to  God  ;  and  now,  of  all  moments  in  my  life  ?  " 

"  Noble  creature  !  "  said  she  ;  "  you  will  make  me  lov3 
you  whether  1  wish  or  not." 

What  was  it,  after  all,  by  which  PVank  Headley  won 
Valencia's  love  ?  I  cannot  tell.  Can  you  tell,  sir,  how  you 
Won  the  love  of  your  wife  ?  As  little  as  you  can  tell  of 
that  still  greater  miracle  —  ho\«  you  have  kept  her  love 
Bince  she  found  out  what  manner  jf  man  you  were. 


BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE.  393 

So  they  paced  homeward,  hand  in  hand,  beside  the  shin- 
ing ripples,  along  the  Dinas  shore.  The  birches  breathed 
fragrance  on  them  ;  the  night-hawk  churred  softly  round 
their  path  ;  the  stately  mountains  smiled  above  them  in  the 
moonlight,  and  seemed  to  keep  watch  and  ward  over  their 
love,  and  to  shut  out  the  noisy  world,  and  the  harsh  babble 
and  vain  fashions  of  the  town.  The  summer  lightning 
flickered  to  the  westward  ;  but  round  them  the  rich  soft 
night  seemed  fall  of  love,  —  as  full  of  love  as  their  own 
hearts  were,  and,  like  them,  brooding  silently  upon  its  joy. 
At  last  the  walk  was  over  ;  the  kind  moon  sank  low  behind 
the  hills  ;  and  the  darkness  hid  their  blushes  as  they  paced 
into  the  sleeping  village,  and  their  hands  parted  unwillingly 
at  last. 

When  they  came  into  the  hall,  through  the  group  of 
lounging  gownsmen  and  tourists,  they  found  Bowie  arguing 
with  Mrs.  Lewis,  in  his  dogmatic  Scotch  way,  — 

"So  ye  see,  madam,  there  's  no  use  defending  the  drunken 
loon  any  more  at  all  ;  and  here  will  my  leddies  have  just 
walked  their  bonny  legs  off,  all  through  that  carnal  sin  of 
drunkenness,  which  is  the  curse  of  your  Welsh  populaaa- 
tion." 

"  And  not  quite  unknown  north  of  Tweed  either,  Bowne," 
said  Valencia,  laughing.  "There  now,  say  no  more  about 
it.  We  have  had  a  delightful  walk,  and  nobody  is  the  least 
tired.  Don't  say  any  more,  Mrs.  Lewis  ;  but  tell  them  to 
get  us  some  supper.     Bowie,  so  my  lord  has  come  in  ?  " 

"  Tliis  half-hour  good  !  " 

"  Has  he  had  any  sport  ?  " 

"Sport!  a}',  troth!  Five  fish  in  the  day.  That's  a 
river  indeed  at  Bettws  !  Not  a  pawky  wee  burn,  like  this 
Aberglaslyn  thing." 

"  Only  five  fish  ?  "  said  Valencia,  in  a  frightened  tone. 

"  Fish,  my  Icddy,  not  trouts,  I  said.  I  thought  ye  knew 
better  than  that  by  this  time." 

"0,  salmon?"  cried  Valencia,  relieved.  "Delightful! 
I'll  go  to  him  this  moment." 

And  up  stairs  to  Scoutbush's  room  she  went. 

He  was  sitting  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  sippmg 
his  claret,  and  fondhng  his  fly -book  (the  only  one  he  ever 
studied  con  amore),  with  a  most  complacent  face.  She 
came  in  and  stood  demurely  before  him,  holding  her  broad 
hat  in  both  hands  before  her  knees,  like  a  school-girl,  her 
face  half-hidden  in  the  black  curls.     Scoutbush  looked  up 


iit)4  BOTE  SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

and  smiled  affectionately,  as  he  caught  the  light  of  her  eyea 
and  the  arch  play  of  her  lips. 

"  Ah  !  there  you  are,  at  a  pretty  time  of  night  I  How 
beautiful  you  look,  Val. !  I  wish  my  wife  may  be  half  as 
pretty  !  " 

Valencia  made  him  a  prim  curtsey. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  my  lord's  good  sport.  lie 
will  choose  to  be  in  a  good  humor,  I  suppose." 

"Good  humor?  ja  va  sans  dire!  Three  stone  of  fish  in 
three  hours  I  " 

"  Then  his  little  sister  is  going  to  do  a  very  foolish  thing, 
and  wants  his  leave  to  do  it ;  which  if  he  will  grant,  she 
will  let  him  do  as  many  foolish  things  as  he  likes,  without 
scolding  him,  as  long  as  they  both  shall  live." 

"  Do  it  tlien,  I  beg.  VVliat  is  it  ?  Do  you  want  to  go  up 
Snowdon  with  Ileadley  to-morrow,  to  see  the  sun  rise  ? 
You '11  kill  yourself!" 

"  No,"  said  Valencia  very  quietly  ;  "  I  only  want  to 
marry  him." 

"  Marry  him  !  "  cried  Scoutbush,  starting  up. 

"  Don't  try  to  look  majestic,  my  dear  little  brother,  for 
you  are  really  not  tall  enough  ;  as  it  is,  you  have  only 
hooked  all  your  flies  into  your  dressing-gown." 

Scoutbush  dashed  himself  down  into  his  chair  again. 

"  I'll  be  shot  if  you  shall!  " 

"  You  may  be  shot  just  as  surely  whether  I  do  or  not," 
said  she  softly  ;  and  she  knelt  down  before  him,  and  put  her 
arms  round  him,  and  laid  her  head  u|)on  his  lap.  "There, 
you  can't  run  away  now  ;  so  you  must  hear  me  quietly. 
And  you  know  it  may  not  be  often  that  we  shall  be  together 
again  thus  ;  and  0,  Scoutbush  I  brother  !  if  anything  was 
to  happen  to  you  —  I  only  say  if — in  this  horrid  war,  you 
would  not  like  to  think  that  you  had  refused  the  last  thing 
that  your  little  Val.  asked  for,  and  that  she  was  miserable 
and  lonely  at  home  ?  " 

"  I  '11  be  shot  if  you  shall  I  "  was  all  the  poor  viscount 
could  get  out. 

"  Yes,  miserable  and  lonely;  you  gone  away,  and  mon 
Saint  Pere  too;  and  Lucia,  she  has  her  children  —  and  I 
am  so  wild  and  weak  —  I  must  have  some  one  to  guide  me 
and  protect  me  —  indeed  I  must !  " 

"  Why,  that  was  what  I  always  said!  That  was  why  I 
wanted  you  so  to  marry  this  season  I  Why  did  you  not 
take  Chalkclerc,  or  half  a  dozen  good  matches  who  were 


BOTH  SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT  ONCE.  395 

dying  for  you,  and  not  this  confounded  black  parson,  of  all 
birds  in  the  air  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  take  Lord  Chalkclere  for  the  very  reason  that 
I  do  take  Mr.  Headley.  I  want  a  husband  who  will  guide 
me,  not  one  whom  I  must  guide." 

"  Guide  ?  "  said  Scoutbush  bitterly,  with  one  of  those 
little  sparks  of  practical  shrewdness  which  sometimes  fell 
from  him.  "  Ay,  I  see  how  it  is  !  These  intriguing  rascals 
of  parsons  —  they  begin  as  father-confessors,  like  so  many 
popish  priests ;  and  one  fine  morning  they  blossom  out  into 
lovers,  and  so  they  get  all  the  pretty  women,  and  all  the 
good  fortunes,  —  the  sneaking,  ambitious,  low-bred — " 

"He  is  neither!  You  are  unjust,  Scoutbush!"  cried 
Valencia,  looking  up.  "  He  is  the  very  soul  of  honor.  He 
miglit  be  rich  now,  and  have  had  a  fine  living,  if  he  had  not 
been  too  conscientious  to  let  his  uncle  buy  him  one  ;  and 
that  offended  his  uncle,  and  he  would  allow  him  nothing. 
And  as  for  being  low-bred,  he  is  a  gentleman,  as  you  know  ; 
and  if  his  uncle  be  in  business,  his  mother  is  a  lady,  and  he 
will  be  well  enough  ofiT  one  day." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  his  affairs." 

"He  told  me  all,  months  ago  —  before  there  was  any 
dream  of  this.  And,  my  dear,"  slie  went  on,  relapsing  into 
her  usual  arch  tone,  "  there  is  no  fear  but  his  uncle  will  be 
glad  enough  to  patronize  him  again,  when  he  finds  that  he 
has  married  a  viscount's  sister." 

Scoutbush  laughed.  "  You  scheming  little  Irish  rogue  I 
But  I  won't !  I  've  said  it,  and  I  won't !  It 's  enough  to 
have  one  sister  married  to  a  poor  poet,  without  having 
another  married  to  a  poor  parson.  0  !  what  have  I  done 
that  I  should  be  bothered  in  this  way  ?  Is  n't  it  bad  enough 
to  be  a  landlord,  and  to  have  an  estate,  and  be  responsible 
for  a  lot  of  people  that  will  die  of  the  cholera,  and  have  to 
vote  in  the  house  about  a  lot  of  things  I  don't  understand, 
nor  anybody  else,  I  believe,  but  that,  over  and  above,  I  must 
be  the  head  of  the  fimily,  and  answerable  to  all  the  world 
for  whom  my  mad  sisters  marry  ?     I  won't,  I  say  !  " 

"  Then  I  shall  just  go  and  marry  without  your  leave  1 
I  'ra  of  age,  you  know,  and  my  fortune  's  my  own  ;  and 
then  we  shall  come  in  as  the  runaway  couples  do  in  a  play, 
while  you  sit  there  in  your  dressing-gown  as  the  stern 
father,  —  won't  you  borrow  a  white  wig  for  the  occasion, 
my  lord? — and  we  shall  fall  down  on  our  knees,  so  "  -- 
and  she  put  herself  in  the  prettiest  attitude  in  the  world,  — ■ 
"  and  beg  your  blessing  —  Please  forgive  us  thib  timp,  and 


396  BOTH    SIDES    OF   THE   MOON    AT    ONCE. 

we  '11  never  do  so  any  more  1  And  then  you  will  turn  youf 
face  away,  like  the  baron  in  the  ballad, 

•  And  brushed  away  the  springing  tear 
lie  proudly  strove  to  hide,' 

Et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Finish  the  scene  for  yourself,  with  a 
—  '  Bless  ye,  my  children  ;  bless  ye  ! '  " 

"  Go  along,  and  marry  the  cat,  if  you  like  I  You  are  mad  ; 
and  I  am  mad  ;  and  all  the  world  's  mad,  I  think." 

"There,"  she  said,  "1  knew  that  he  would  be  a  good 
boy  at  last!  "  And  she  sprang  up,  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and,  to  his  great  astonishment,  burst  into  the  most 
violent  fit  of  crying. 

"  Good  gracious,  Valencia  !  do  be  reasonable  1  You  '11 
go  into  a  fit,  or  somebody  will  hear  you  !  You  know  how 
1  hate  a  scene.  Do  be  good,  thei'e  's  a  darling !  Why 
did  n't  you  tell  me  at  first  how  much  you  wished  for  it,  and 
I  would  have  said  yes  in  a  moment  ?  " 

"  Because  I  did  n't  know  myself,"  cried  she,  passionately. 
"  There,  I  will  be  good,  and  love  you  better  than  all  the 
woild  except  one.  And  if  you  let  those  horrid  Russians 
hurt  you,  I  will  hate  you  as  long  as  I  live,  and  be  misera- 
ble all  my  life  afterwards." 

"  Why,  Valencia,  do  you  know  that  sounds  very  like  a 
bull?" 

"  Am  I  not  a  wild  Irish  girl  ?  "  said  she,  and  hurried  out, 
leaving  Scoutbush  to  return  to  his  flies. 

She  bounded  into  Lucia's  room,  there  to  pour  out  a  burst- 
ing heart  —  and  stopped  short. 

Lucia  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  her  shawl  and  bonnet  tossed 
upon  tlie  floor,  her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  her  arms  sunk 
by  her  sides. 

"  Lucia,  what  is  it  ?     Speak  to  me,  Lucia  !  " 

She  pointed  faintly  to  a  letter  on  the  floor  —  Valencia 
caught  it  up  —  Lucia  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  stop  her. 

"  No,  you  must  not  read  it.     Too  dreadful !  " 

But  Valencia  read  it,  while  Lucia  covered  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  uttered  a  long,  low,  shuddering  moan  of  bitter 
agony. 

Valencia  read,  with  flushing  eyes  and  bursting  brow.  It 
was  a  hideous  letter.  The  words  of  a  man  trying  to  supply 
the  place  of  strength  by  virulence.  A  hideous  letter,  unfit 
to  be  written  here. 

"  Valen(;ia  !   Valencia  1     It  is  false  —  a  mistake.     He  iJ 


BOTH  SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE.  397 

dreaming      You  know  it  is  false  !     You  will  not  leave  me 

too  ?  " 

Valencia,  dashed  it  on  the  g^round,  clasped  her  sister  in 
her  arras,  and  covered  her  head  with  kisses. 

"My  Lucia!  My  own  sweet,  good  sister!  Base,  cow- 
ardly !  "  sobbed  slie,  in  her  rage  ;  while  Lucia's  agony 
began  to  find  a  vent  in  words,  and  she  moaned  on,  — 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  All  that  flower,  that  horrid  flower  ! 
but  who  would  have  dreamed  —  and  Major  Campbell,  too, 
of  all  men  upon  earth  ?  Valencia,  it  is  some  horrid  delusion 
of  the  devil.  Why,  he  was  there  all  the  while  —  and  you 
too.  Could  he  think  that  I  should  before  his  very  face  ? 
What  must  he  fancy  me  ?  0,  it  is  a  delusion  of  the  devil, 
and  nothing  else  !  " 

"  He  is  a  wretch  !  I  will  take  the  letter  to  my  brother  ; 
he  shall  right  you  !  " 

"  Ah  no  !  no  !  never  !  Let  me  tear  it  to  atoms  —  hide 
it !  It  is  all  a  mistake  !  He  did  not  mean  it !  He  will 
recollect  himself  to-morrow,  and  come  back." 

"  Let  him  come  back  if  he  dare  !  "  cried  Valencia,  in  a 
tone  which  said,  "  I  could  kill  him  with  my  own  hands  !  " 

"  0,  he  will  come  back!  He  cannot  have  the  heart  to 
leave  his  poor  little  Lucia.  0,  cruel,  cowardly,  not  to  have 
said  one  word — not  one  word  to  explain  all  —  but  it  was 
all  my  fault,  my  wicked,  odious  temper  ;  and  after  I  had 
seen  how  vexed  he  was,  too!  —  0,  Elsley,  Elsley,  come 
back,  only  come  back,  and  I  will  beg  your  pardon  on  my 
knees  !  anything  !  Scold  me,  beat  me,  if  you  will  !  I  de- 
serve it  all !  Only  come  back,  and  let  me  see  your  face, 
and  hear  your  voice,  instead  of  leaving  me  here  all  alone, 
and  the  poor  children  too  !  0  what  shall  I  say  to  them 
to-morrow,  when  they  wake  and  find  tio  father  ?  " 

Valencia's  indignation  had  no  words.  She  could  oidy  sit 
on  the  bed,  with  Lucia  in  her  arms,  looking  defiance  at  all 
the  world  above  that  fair  head  which  one  moment  drooped 
on  her  bosom,  and  the  next  gazed  up  into  her  face  in  pitiful 
child-like  pleading. 

"  0,  if  I  but  knew  where  he  was  gone  !  If  1  could  but 
find  him  !  One  word  —  one  word  would  set  all  right.  It 
always  did,  Valencia,  always  !  He  was  so  kind,  so  dear  in 
a  momtmt,  when  1  put  away  my  naughty,  naughty  temper, 
and  smiled  in  his  face  like  a  good  wife.  Wicked  creature 
that  I  was  !  and  this  is  my  punishment.  0,  Elsley,  one 
word,  one  word  !  I  must  find  him  if  I  went  barefoot  over 
the  mountains  —  I  must  go,  I"  must  —  " 
34- 


398  BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

And  she  tried  to  rise  ;  but  Valencia  held  her  down,  while 
plie  entreated  piteously,  — 

"  I  will  go,  and  see  about  finding  him  !  "  she  said  at  last, 
a>i  her  only  resource.  "  Promise  me  to  be  quiet  here,  and 
1  will." 

"  Quiet  ?  Yes  !  quiet  here  1  "  and  she  threw  herself  upon 
her  iace  on  the  floor. 

She  looked  up  eagerly.    "  You  will  not  tell  Scoutbush  ?  " 

"  Why  not?" 

"  He  is  so  —  so  hasty.  He  will  kill  him  !  Valencia,  he 
will  kill  him  !  Promise  me  not  to  tell  him,  or  I  shall  go 
mad  !  "  And  she-  sat  up  again,  pressing  her  hands  upon 
lier  head,  and  rocking  from  side  to  side. 

"  0,  Valencia,  if  1  dared  only  scream  !  but  keeping  it 
in  kills  me.     It  is  like  a  sword  through  my  brain  now  1  " 

"  Let  me  call  Clara." 

"  No,  no  I  not  Clara.  Do  not  tell  her.  I  will  be  quiet ; 
indeed  I  will  ;  only  come  back  soon,  soon  ;  for  I  am  all 
alone,  alone  !  "  And  she  threw  herself  down  again  upon 
her  face. 

Valencia  went  out.  Certain  as  she  was  of  her  sister's 
innocence,  there  was  one  terrible  question  in  her  heart 
which  must  be  answered,  or  her  belief  in  all  truth,  good- 
ness, religion,  would  reel  and  rock  to  its  very  foundations. 
And  till  she  had  an  answer  to  that,  she  could  not  sit  still 
by  Lucia. 

She  walked  hurriedly,  with  compressed  lips,  but  quivering 
limbs,  down  stairs,  and  into  the  sitting-room.  Scoutbush 
was  gone  to  bed.     Campbell  and  Mellot  sat  chatting  still. 

"  Where  is  my  brother  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  bed,  as  some  one  else  ought  to  be  ;  for  it  is  past 
twelve.     Is  Vavasour  come  in  yet  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Very  odd,"  said  Claude  ;  "  I  never  saw  him  after  I  left 
you." 

"  lie  said  certainly  that  he  was  going  to  find  you,"  said 
Campbell, 

"  There  is  no  need  for  speculating,"  said  Valencia,  qniet- 
[y  ;  "  my  sister  has  had  a  note  from  Mr.  Vavasour,  at  Pen- 
y-gwryd." 

"  Pen-y-gwryd  ?  "  cried  both  men  at  once. 

"  Yes,     Major  Campbell,  I  wish  to  show  it  to  you." 

Valencia's  tone  and  manner  was  significant  enough  to 
make  Claude  Mellot  bid  them  both  good-night 


BOTH   SIDES    OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE.  399 

Wlien  he  had  shut  the  door  behind  him,  Valeucia  put  the 
letter  into  the  major's  hand. 

He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  it  to  look  up  at  her ;  but, 
if  he  had  done  so,  he  would  have  been  startled  by  the  fear- 
ful capacity  of  passion  which  changed,  for  the  moment,  that 
gay  Queen  Whims  into  a  teiTible  Roxana,  as  she  stood, 
leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  but  drawn  up  to  her  fuU 
height,  her  lips  tight  shut,  eyes  which  gazed  through  ar.d 
through  him  in  awful  scrutiny,  holding  her  very  breath, 
while  a  nervous  clutching  of  the  little  hand  said,  "If  you 
have  tampered  with  my  sister's  heart,  better  for  you  that 
you  were  dead  !  " 

He  read  it  through,  once,  twice,  with  livid  face  ;  then 
dashed  it  on  the  floor. 

"Fool!  —  cur!  —  liar!  —  she  is  as  pure  as  God's  sun- 
light." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  that,"  said  Valencia,  through  her 
closed  teeth. 

"Fool! — fool!"  And  then,  in  a  moment,  his  voice 
changed  from  indignation  to  the  bitterest  self-reproach. 
"  And  fool  I  ;  thrice  fool  !  Who  am  I,  to  rail  on  him  ?  0, 
God  !  what  have  I  done  ?  "  And  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands. 

"  What  have  j'-ou  done  ?  "  literally  shrieked  Valencia. 

"  Nothing  that  you  or  man  can  blame,  Miss  St.  Just ! 
Can  you  dream  that,  sinful  as  I  am,  I  could  ever  harbor  a 
thought  toward  her  of  which  I  should  be  ashamed  before 
the  angels  of  God  ?  " 

He  looked  up  as  he  spoke,  with  an  utter  humility,  and  an 
intense  honesty,  which  unnerved  her  at  once. 

"  0,  m}"^  Saint  Pere  !  "  and  she  held  out  both  her  hands. 
"  Forgive  me,  if — only  for  a  moment." 

"  I  am  not  your  Saint  Pere,  nor  any  one's  1  I  am  a  poor, 
weak,  conceited,  miserable  man,  who,  by  his  accursed 
impertinence,  has  broken  the  heart  of  the  being  whom  ho 
loves  best  on  earth." 

Valencia  started  ;  but,  ere  she  could  ask  for  an  explana- 
tion, he  rejoined,  wildly, — 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  Tell  me  only  that,  this  once  I  Has  it 
killed  her  ?     Does  she  hate  him  ?  " 

"  Adores  him  more  than  ever.  0,  Major  Campbell  !  it  is 
too  piteous,  too  piteous." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  shuddering.  "  Thank 
G(^d  !  yes,  thank  God  !  So  it  should  be.  Let  her  love  him 
to  the  last,  and  win  her  martyr's  crown  I     Now,  Valencia 


400  BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT    ONCE. 

St.  Just,  sit  down,  if  but  for  five  minutes  ;  and  listen,  on(;e 
for  idl,  to  the  last  words,  perhaps,  y<ni  will  ever  hear  me 
epeak  ;  uidess  she  wants  you  'I  — " 

"  No,  no  I  Tell  me  all.  Saint  Pere  !  "  said  Valeneia  ;  "  for, 
I  am  walking  in  a  dream  —  a  double  dream  !  "  as  the  new 
thought  of  lleadley,  and  that  walk,  came  over  her.  "  Tell 
me  all  at  once,  while  1  have  wits  left  to  comprehend." 

"  Miss  St.  Just,"  said  he,  in  a  clear,  calm  voice,  "  it  is 
fit,  for  her  honor  and  for  mine,  that  you  should  know  all. 
The  first  day  that  1  ever  saw  your  sister,  1  loved  her  ;  as  a 
man  loves  who  can  never  ce;w5e  to  love,  or  love  a  second 
time.  I  was  a  raw,  awkward  Scotchman  then,  and  she  used 
to  laugh  at  me.  Why  not  ?  I  kept  my  secret,  and  deter- 
mined to  b(;come  a  man  at  whom  no  one  would  wish  to 
laugh.  I  was  in  the  Company's  service,  then.  You  recol- 
lect her  jesting  once  about  the  Indian  arni}^,  and  my  com- 
manding black  people,  and  saying  that  the  Line  only  was  fit 
for  —  some  girl's  jest  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  recollect  nothing  of  it." 

"  I  never  forgot  it.  I  threw  up  all  my  prospects,  and 
went  into  the  Line.  Whether  I  won  honor  there  or  not,  I 
ueed  not  tell  you.  I  came  back  to  England,  years  after,  not 
unworthy,  as  I  fancied,  to  look  your  sister  in  the  face  as  an 
equal.     I  found  her  married." 

He  paused  a  little,  and  then  went  on,  in  a  quiet,  business- 
like tone. 

"  Good.  Her  choice  was  sure  to  be  a  worthy  one,  and 
that  was  enough  for  me.  You  need  not  doubt  that  1  kept 
my  secret  then  more  sacredly  than  ever.  I  returned  to 
India,  and  tried  to  die.  I  dared  not  kill  myself,  for  I  was  a 
soldier  and  a  Christian,  and  belonged  to  God  and  my  Queen. 
The  Sikhs  would  not  kill  me,  do  what  I  would  to  help  them. 
Then  I  threw  myself  into  science,  that  I  might  stifle  pas- 
sion ;  and  I  stifled  it.  I  fancied  myself  cured,  I  was  cured  ; 
and  I  returned  to  England  again.  I  loved  your  brother  for 
her  sake  ;  I  loved  you  at  first  for  her  sake,  then  for  your 
own.  But  I  presumed  upon  my  cure  ;  I  accepted  your 
brother's  invitation  ;  1  caught  at  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
her  again  —  happy — as  I  fancied;  and  of  proving  to  my- 
self my  own  soundness.  1  considered  myself  a  sort  of 
Melchisedek,  neither  young  nor  old,  without  passions,  with- 
out purpose  on  earth  —  a  fakeer,  who  had  license  to  do  and 
to  dare  what  others  might  not.  But  I  kept  my  secret 
proudly  inviolate.  I  do  not  believe  at  this  moment  she 
dreams  that  —  Do  you  ?  " 


BOTH    SIDES    OF   THE   MOON    AT    ONCE.  401 

"She  does'not." 

"Thank  GDd  !  I  was  a  most  conceited  fool,  puffed  up 
with  spiritual  pride,  tempting  God  needlessly.  I  went,  I 
saw  her.  Heaven  is  my  witness,  that,  as  far  as  passion 
goes,  my  heart  is  as  pure  as  yours  ;  but  I  found  that  I  still 
cared  more  for  her  than  for  any  being  on  earth  ;  and  I 
found,  too,  the  sort  of  man  upon  whom  —  God  forgive  me  ! 
I  must  not  talk  of  that — 1  despised  him,  hated  him,  pre- 
tended to  teach  him  his  duty,  by  behaving  better  to  her 
than  he  did  —  the  spiritual  coxcomb  that  I  v/as  !  What 
business  had  I  with  it  ?  Why  not  have  left  all  to  God,  and 
her  good  sense  ?  The  devil  tempted  me,  to-day,  in  the 
shape  of  an  angel  of  courtesy  and  chivalry  ;  and  here  the 
end  is  come.  I  must  find  that  man,  Miss  St.  Just,  if  1 
ti'avel  the  world  in  search  of  liim.  I  must  ask  his  pardon 
frankly,  h^^mbly,  for  my  impeitinence.  Perhaps  so  I  may 
bring  him  back  to  her,  and  not  die  with  a  curse. on  my  head 
for  having  parted  those  whom  God  has  joined.  And  then 
to  the  old  tighting-trade  once  more  — the  only  one,  I  be- 
lieve, I  really  understand,  and  see  whether  a  Russian  bullet 
will  not  fly  straighter  than  a  clumsy  Sikh's." 

Valencia  listened,  awe-stricken  ;  and  all  the  more  so 
because  this  was  spoken  in  a  calm,  half-abstracted  voice, 
without  a  note  of  feeling,  save  where  he  alluded  to  his  own 
mistakes.  When  it  was  over,  she  rose  without  a  word,  and 
took  both  his  hands  in  her  own,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"  You  forgive  me,  then,  all  the  misery  which  I  have 
caused  ?  " 

"  Do  not  talk  so  !  Only  forgive  me  having  fancied  foi 
one  moment  that  you  were  anything  but  what  you  are,  an 
angel  out  of  heaven." 

Campbell  hung  down  his  head. 

"  Angel,  truly  !  Azrael,  the  angel  of  death,  then.  Go 
to  her  now  —  go,  and  leave  a  humbled,  penitent  man  alone 
with  God." 

"  0,  my  Saint  Pere  !  "  cried  she,  bursting  into  tears. 
"This  is  too  wretched  —  all  a  horrid  dream  —  and  when, 
too — wtien  I  had  been  counting  on  telling  you  of  some- 
thing so  different  !  —  I  cannot  now,  I  have  not  the  heart." 

"  What,  more  misery  ?  " 

"0,  no!  no  I  no  I  You  will  know  all  to-morrow.  Ask 
Scoutbush." 

"  I  shall  be  gone  in  search  of  that  man  long  before  Scout- 
bush  is  awake." 

"  Impossible  !     You  do  not  know  whither  he  has  gone  " 
34* 


402  BOTH    SIDES   OF   THE   MOON   AT   ONCE. 

"  If  I  employ  every  detective  in  Bow-street,  I  will  find 


mm." 


Wait,  only  wait,  till  the  post  comes  in  to-morrow.  ITo 
will  surely  write,  if  not  to  her,  —  wretch  that  he  is  I  —  at 
least  to  some  of  us." 

"  If  he  be  alive.  No.  I  must  go  up  to  Pen-y-gwryd, 
where  he  was  last  seen,  and  find  out  what  I  can." 

"  Tney  will  be  all  in  bed  at  this  hour  of  the  night ;  and 
if — if  anything  has  happened,  it  will  be  over  by  now," 
added  she,  witli  a  shudder. 

"  God  forgive  me  !  It  will,  indeed  ;  but  he  may  write  — 
perhaps  to  me.  He  is  no  coward,  I  believe ;  and  he  may 
send  me  a  challenge.     Yes,  I  will  wait  for  the  post." 

"  Shall  you  accept  it  if  he  does  ?  " 

Major  Campbt'U  smiled  sadly. 

"  No.  Miss  St.  Just  -,  you  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  upon 
that  point.  I  have  done  quite  enough  harm  already  to  your 
family.  Now,  good-by  !  1  will  wait  for  the  post  to-morrow ; 
do  you  go  to  your  sister." 

Valencia  went,  utterly  bewildered.  She  had  forgotten 
Frank,  but  Frank  had  not  forgotten  her.  He  had  hurried 
to  his  room  ;  lay  till  morning,  sleepless  with  delight,  and 
pouring  out  his  pure  spirit  in  thanks  for  this  great  and  unex- 
pectedblessing.  A  new  life  had  begun  for  him,  even  in  the 
jaws  of  death.  He  would  still  go  to  the  East.  It  seemed 
easy  to  him  to  go  there  in  search  of  a  grave  ;  how  much 
more  now,  when  he  felt  so  full  of  magic  life,  that  fever, 
cholera,  the  chances  of  war,  even,  could  not  harm  him  ! 
After  this  proof  of  God's  love  how  could  he  doubt,  how 
fear  ? 

Little  he  thought  that,  three  doors  ofi"  from  him,  Valencia 
was  sitting  up  the  whole  night  through,  vaiidy  trjmg  to 
quiet  Lucia,  who  refused  to  undress,  and  paced  up  and 
down  her  room,  hour  after  hour,  in  wild  misery,  v^hich  I 
have  no  skill  to  detaiL 


OHAPTER    XXI. 

nature's  melodrama. 

What,  then,  had  become  of  Elsley,  and  whence  had  he 
written  the  fatal  letter?  He  had  hurried  up  the  high  road 
for  half  an  hour  and  more,  till  the  valley  on  the  left  sloped 
upward  more  rapidly,  in  dark,  dreary  bogs,  the  moonlight 
shining  on  their  runnels  ;  while  the  mountain  on  his  right 
sloped  downwards  more  rapidly  in  dark,  dreary  down, 
strewn  with  rocks  which  stood  out  black  against  the  sky. 
He  was  nearing  the  head  of  the  watershed  ;  soon  he  saw 
slate  roofs  glittering  in  the  moonlight,  and  found  himself  at 
the  little  inn  of  Pen-j^-gwryd,  at  the  meeting  of  the  three 
great  valleys,  the  central  heart  of  the  mountains. 

And  a  genial,  jovial  little  heart  it  is,  and  an  honest,  kindly 
little  heart,  too,  with  warm  life-blood  within.  So  it  looked 
that  night,  with  every  window  red  with  comfortable  light, 
and  a  long  stream  of  glare  pouring  across  the  road  from  the 
open  door,  gilding  the  fir-tree  tops  in  front ;  but  its  genial- 
ity only  made  him  shudder.  He  had  been  there  more  than 
once,  and  knew  the  place  and  the  people  ;  and  knew,  too, 
that,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  they  were  the  least  like  him. 
He  hurried  past  the  doorway,  and  caught  one  glimpse  of 
the  bright  kitchen.  A  sudden  thought  struck  him.  He 
would  go  in  and  write  his  letter  there.  But  not  yet  —  he 
could  not  go  in  yet ;  for  through  the  open  door  came  some 
sweet  Welsh  air,  so  sweet  that  even  he  paused  to  listen. 
Men  were  singing  in  three  parts,  in  that  rich  metallic  tem- 
per of  voice,  and  that  perfect  time  and  tune,  which  is  the 
one  gift  still  left  to  that  strange  Cyrary  race,  worn  out  with 
the  long  burden  of  so  many  thousand  years.  He  knew  the 
air  ;  it  was  "  The  Rising  of  the  Lark."  Heavens  !  what  a 
bitter  contrast  to  his  own  thoughts  !  But  he  stood  rooted, 
as  if  spell-bound,  to  hear  it  to  the  end.  The  lark's  upward 
flight  was  over  ;  and  Elsley  heard  him  come  quivering  down 
from  heaven's  gate,  fluttering,  sinking,  trilling  self-compla- 
contly,  springing  aloft  in  one  bar,  only  to  sink  lower  in  the 

(403) 


i04  nature's  melodrama. 

next,  and  call  more  softly  to  his  brooding  mate  below  ;  till, 
worn  out  with  his  ecstasy,  he  murmured  one  last  sigh  of 
joy,  and  sank  into  the  nest.  The  picture  flashed  through 
Elsley's  brain  as  swiftl^^  as  the  notes  did  through  his  ears. 
lie  breatlied  more  freely  when  it  vanished  witli  the  sounds. 
He  strode  hastily  in,  and  down  tiie  little  passage  to  tlie 
kitchen. 

It  was  a  low  room,  ceiled  with  dark  beams,  from  whi<;h 
hung  bacon  and  fishing-rods,  harness  and  drying  stockings, 
and  all  the  miscellanea  of  a  fishing-inn  kept  by  a  farmer, 
and  beneath  it  the  nsual  happy,  hearty,  honest  group. 
There  was  Harry  Owen,  bhind  and  stalwart,  his  baby  in  his 
arms,  smiling  upon  the  world  in  general;  old  Mrs.  Pritcli- 
ard,  bending  over  tin;  fire,  putting  the  last  touch  to  one  ol 
those  miraculous  suulllets,  compact  of  clouds  and  nectar, 
whicli  ti-ansport  alike  palate  and  fancy,  at  the  first  mouthful, 
from  Snowdon  to  Belgrave  Square.  A  sturdy,  fair-haired 
Saxon  Gourbannelig  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  two 
of  the  beautiful  children  on  his  knoe,  their  long  locks  flow- 
ing over  the  elbows  of  his  shooting-jacket,  as,  with  both 
arms  round  th(>m,  he  made  ruiich  for  them  with  his  hand- 
kerchief and  his  fingers,  and  chattered  to  them  in  English, 
while  they  chattered  in  Welsh.  By  him  sat  another  Eng- 
lishman, to  whom  the  three  tuneful  Snowdon  guides,  their 
music-score  upon  their  knees,  sat  listening  approvingly,  as 
he  rolled  out,  with  voice  as  of  a  jolly  blackbird,  or  jollier 
monk  of  old,  the  good  old  Wessex  song  : 

"  My  dog  he  has  his  master's  nose, 
To  smell  a  knave  through  silken  hose  ; 
If  friends  or  honest  men  go  hy. 
Welcome,  quoth  my  dog  and  I  ! 

•'  Of  foreign  tongues  let  scholars  brag, 
Witli  fifteen  names  for  a  pudding-bag : 
Two  tongues  I  know  ne'er  told  a  lie. 
And  their  wearers  be  my  dog  and  I !  " 

"  That  ought  to  be  Harry's  song,  and  the  colly's,  too, 
eh  ?  "  said  he,  pointing  to  the  dear  old  dog,  who  sat  with 
his  head  on  Owen's  knee  :  "  eh,  my  men  ?  Here  's  a  health 
to  the  honest  man  and  his  dog  !  " 

And  all  laughed  and  drank  ;  while  Elsley's  dark  face 
looked  in  at  the  door-way,  and  half  turned  to  escape. 
Handsome,  ladydike  Mrs  Owen,  bustling  out  of  the  kitchen 
with  a  supper-tray,  ran  full  against  him,  and  uttered  a 
Welsh  scream. 


nature's  melodrama.  405 

'  Show  me  a  room,  and  bring  me  a  pen  and  paper,"  said 
ne,  and  then  started  in  his  turn,  as  all  had  started  at  him  ; 
for  the  two  Englishmen  looked  round,  and,  behold,  to  his 
disgust,  the  singer  was  none  other  than  Naylor ;  the  actor 
of  Punch  was  Wynd. 

To  have  found  his  betes  noirs  even  here,  and  at  such  a  mo- 
ment !  And,  what  was  worse,  to  hear  Mrs.  Owen  say,  "  We 
have  ho  room,  sir,  unless  these  gentlemen  — " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Wynd,  jumping  up,  a  child  under  each 
arm.  "Mr.  Vavasour!  we  shall  be  most  happy  to  have 
your  company  —  for  a  week  if  you  will !  " 

"  Ten  minutes'  solitude  is  all  I  ask,  sir,  if  I  am  not  intrud- 
ing too  for." 

"  Two  hours,  if  you  like.  We  Ml  stay  here,  Mrs.  Owen  ; 
the  thicker  the  merrier."  But  Elsley  had  vanished  into  a 
chamber  bestrewn  with  plaids,  pipes,  hob-nail  boots,  fishing- 
tackle,  mathematical  books,  scraps  of  ore,  and  the  wild 
confusion  of  a  gownsman's  den. 

"  The  party  is  taken  ill  with  a  poem,"  said  Wynd. 

Naylor  stuck  out  his  heavy  under  lip,  and  glanced  side- 
long at  his  friend. 

"  With  something  worse,  Ned.  That  man's  eye  and 
voice  had  something  uncanny  in  thorn.  Mellot  said  he 
would  go  crazed  some  day  ;  and  be  hanged  if  1  don't  think 
he  is  so  now." 

Another  five  minutes,  and  Elsley  rang  the  bell  violently 
for  hot  brandy  and  water. 

Mrs.  Owen  came  back,  looking  a  little  startled,  a  letter  in 
her  hand. 

"  The  gentleman  had  drunk  the  liquor  off  at  one  draught, 
and  ran  out  of  the  house  like  a  wild  man.  Harry  Owen 
must  go  down  to  Beddgelert  instantly  with  the  letter  ;  and 
there  was  five  shillings  to  pay  for  all." 

Ilarry  Owen  rises,  like  a  strong  and  patient  beast  of  bur- 
den, ready  for  any  amount  of  walking,  at  any  hour  in  the 
twenty-four.  He  has  been  up  Snowdon  once  to-day  already. 
He  is  going  up  again  at  twelve  to-night,  with  a  German 
who  wants  to  see  the  sun  rise  ;  he  deputes  that  office  to 
John  Roberts,  and  strides  out. 

"  Which  way  did  the  gentleman  go,  Mrs.  Owen  ?  "  asks 
Naylor. 

"  Capel  Curig  road." 

Naylor  whispers  to  Wynd,  who  sets  the  two  little  girla 
on  the  table,  and  hurries  out  with  him.  They  look  up  the 
road,  and  see  no  one  ;  run  a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  where 


406  nature's  melodrama. 

thoy  catch  a  sight  of  the  next  turn,  clear  in  the  moonh'ght 
Tlierc  is  no  one  on  the  road. 

"Run  to  the  bridge,  Wynd,"  whispers  Naylor.  "  Ila 
may  have  thrown  himself  over." 

"  Tally  ho  !  "  whispers  Wynd  in  return,  laying  his  hand 
on  Naylor's  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  lelt  of  the  road. 

A  hundred  yards  from  them,  over  the  boggy  upland, 
among  scattered  boulders,  a  dark  figure  is  moving.  Now 
ho  stops  short,  gesticulating ;  turns  right  and  left  irreso- 
lutely. At  last  he  hurries  on  and  upward  ;  he  is  running, 
springing  from  stone  to  stone. 

"There  is  but  one  thing,  Wynd.  After  him,  or  he'll 
drown  himself  in  Llyn  Cwm  Fynnon." 

"  No,  he  's  striking  to  the  right.  Can  he  be  going  up 
the  Glyder?" 

"  We  '11  see  that  in  five  minutes.  All  in  the  day's  work, 
my  boy  I  I  could  go  np  Mont  Blanc  with  such  a  dinner 
in  me." 

The  two  gallant  men  run  in,  struggle  into  their  wet  boots 
again,  and,  provisioned  •  with  meat  and  bread,  whiskey, 
tobacco,  and  plaids,  are  away  upon  Elsley's  tracks,  having 
left  Mrs.  Owen  disconsolate  by  their  announcement  that  a 
sudden  fancy  to  sleep  on  tlie  Glyder  has  seized  them. 
Nothing  more  will  they  tell  her,  or  any  one  ;  being  gentle- 
men, however  much  slang  they  may  talk  in  private. 

Elsley  left  the  door  of  Pen-y-gwryd,  careless  whither  he 
went,  if  he  went  only  far  enough. 

In  front  of  him  rose  the  Glyder  Vawr,  its  head  shrouded 
in  soft  mist,  through  which  the  moonlight  gk-amed  upon 
the  checkered  quarries  of  that  enormous  desoUition,  the 
dead  bones  of  tlie  eldest-born  of  time.  A  wild  longing 
seized  him  ;  he  would  escape  up  tliither ;  up  into  those 
clouds,  up  anywhere  to  be  alone  —  alone  witli  his  miserable 
self.  That  was  dreadful  enough  ;  but  less  dreadful  than 
having  a  companion,  ay,  even  a  stone  by  him,  which 
could  remind  liim  of  the  scene  which  he  had  left ;  even 
remind  him  that  there  was  another  human  being  on  earth 
beside  himself.  Yes,  to  put  that  cliff  between  him  and  all 
the  worhl !  Away  he  plunged  from  the  high  road,  splash- 
ing over  bogg}'-  uplands,  scrambling  among  scattei'cd  boul- 
ders, across  a  stony  torrent  bed,  and  then  across  another 
and  another; — when  would  he  reach  that  dark  marbh.'d 
wall  which  rose  into  the  infinite  blank,  looking  within  a 
stone-throw  of  him,  and  yet  no  nearer  after  he  had  walked  a 
mile  ? 


nature's  melodrama.  40T 

He  reached  it  at  last,  and  rushed  up  the  talus  of  boulders, 
springing  from  stone  to  stone,  till  his  breath  failed  hini; 
and  he  was  forced  to  settle  into  a  less  frantic  pace.  But 
upward  he  would  go,  and  upward  he  went,  with  a  strength 
which  he  never  had  felt  before.  Strong  ?  How  should  he 
not  be  strong,  while  every  vein  felt  filled  with  molten  lead  ; 
while  some  unseen  power  seemed  not  so  much  to  attract 
him  upwards,  as  to  drive  him  by  magical  repulsion  from  all 
tliat  he  had  left  below  ? 

So  upward,  and  upward  ever,  driven  on  by  the  terrible 
gad-fly,  like  lo  of  old  he  went ;  stumbling  upward  along 
torrent  beds  of  slippery  slate,  writhing  himself  upward 
through  crannies  where  the  waterfall  plashed  cold  upon  his 
chest  and  face,  yet  could  not  cool  the  inward  fire  ;  climb- 
ing, hand  and  knee,  up  cliflfs  of  sharp-edged  rock  ;  striding 
over  downs  where  huge  rocks  lay  crouched  in  the  grass, 
like  fossil  monsters  of  some  ancient  world,  and  seemed  to 
stare  at  him  with  still  and  angry  brows.  Upward  still,  to 
black  terraces  of  lava,  standing  out  hard  and  black  against 
the  gray  cloud,  gleaming  like  iron  in  the  moonlight,  stair 
above  stair,  like  those  over  which  Vathek  and  the  Princosa 
climbed  up  to  the  walls  of  Eblis.  Over  their  crumbling 
steps,  up  through  their  cracks  and  crannies,  out  upon  a 
dreary  slope  of  broken  stones,  and  then,  —  before  he  dives 
upward  into  the  cloud  ten  yards  above  his  head,  —  one 
breathless  look  back  upon  the  world. 

The  horizontal  curtain  of  mist ;  gauzy  below,  fringed 
with  white  tufts  and  streamers,  deepening  above  into  the 
blackness  of  utter  night.  Below  it,  a  long  gulf  of  soft  yel- 
low haze,  in  which,  as  in  a  bath  of  gold,  lie  delicate  bars 
of  far-off  western  cloud  ;  and  the  fttint  glimmer  of  the  west- 
ern sea,  above  long  knotted  spurs  of  hill,  in  deepest  shade, 
like  a  bunch  of  purple  grapes  flecked  here  and  there  from 
behind  with  gleams  of  golden  light ;  and  beneath  them 
again,  the  dark  woods  sleeping  over  Gwynnant,  and  their 
dark  double  sleeping  in  the  bright  lake  below. 

On  the  right  hand  Snowdon  rises.  Vast  sheets  of  utter 
blackness — vast  sheets  of  shining  light.  He  can  see  every 
crag  which  juts  from  the  green  walls  of  Galt-y-Wennalt ; 
and  far  past  it  into  the  great  valley  of  Cwm  Dyli ;  and  then 
the  red  peak,  now  as  black  as  night,  shuts  out  the  world 
with  its  huge  mist-topped  cone.  But  on  the  left  hand  all  is 
deepest  shade.  From  the  highest  saw-edges  where  Moel 
Meirch  cuts  the  golden  sky,  down  to  the  very  depths  of  thtf 
abyss,  all  is  lustrous  darkness,  sooty,  and  yet  golden  still 


408  nature's  melodrama. 

Let  the  darkness  lie  upon  it  forever !  Hidden  be  those 
woods  where  she  stood  an  hi)ur  ago  I  Hidden  tliat  road 
down  which,  even  now,  they  may  be  pacing  homo  together  1 
—  Curse  the  tlmught !  He  covers  his  iUce  in  his  hands,  and 
shudders  in  every  hmb. 

He  lifts  his  hands  from  his  eyes  at  last ;  —  what  has  be- 
fallen ? 

Before  the  golden  haze  a  wliite  veil  is  falling  fast.  Sea, 
mountain,  lake,  are  vanishing,  fading  as  in  a  dream.  Soon 
he  can  see  nothing,  but  the  twinkle  of  a  light  in  Pen-y- 
gwryd,  a  thousand  feet  below  ;  iiappy  children  are  nestling 
there  in  innocent  sleep.  Jovial  voices  are  chatting  round 
the  fire.  What  has  he  to  do  with  youth,  and  health,  and 
joy  ?  Lower,  lower,  ye  clouds  !  Shut  out  that  insolent 
and  intruding  spark,  till  nothing  be  seen  but  the  silver  sheet 
of  Cwm  Fynnon,  and  the  silver  zig-zag  lines  which  wander 
into  it  among  black  morass,  while  down  the  mountain  side 
^o,  softly  sliding,  troops  of  white  mist-angels.  Sol'tly  they 
slide,  swift  and  yet  motionless,  as  if  by  some  inner  will, 
which  needs  no  force  of  limbs  ;  gliding  gently  round  the 
crags,  diving  gently  off  into  the  abyss,  their  long  white 
robes  trailing  about  their  feet  in  upward-floatujg  folds. 
"Let  us  go  hence,"  they  seemed  to  whisper  to  the  God- 
forsaken, as  legends  say  they  whispered,  when  they  left 
their  doomed  shrine  in  old  Jerusalem.  Let  the  white  fringe 
fall  between  him  and  the  last  of  that  fair  troop  ;  let  the  gray 
curtain  follow,  the  black  fall  above  descend  ;  till  he  is  alone 
in  darkness  that  may  be  felt,  and  in  the  shadow  of  death. 

Now  he  is  safe  at  last;  hidden  from  all  living  things  — 
hidden,  it  may  be,  from  God  ;  for  at  least  God  is  hidden 
from  him.  He  has  desired  to  be  alone,  and  he  is  alone  ;  the 
centre  of  the  uiuverse,  if  universe  there  be.  All  created 
things,  suns  and  planets,  seem  to  revolve  round  him,  and 
he  a  point  of  darkness,  not  of  light.  He  seems  to  float 
sell-poised  in  the  centre  of  the  boundless  notliing,  upon  an 
ell-broad  slab  of  stone  —  and  yet  not  even  on  that ;  for  the 
very  ground  on  which  he  stands  he  does  not  feel.  He  does 
not  feel  the  mist  which  wets  his  cheek,  the  blood  which 
throbs  within  his  veins.  He  only  is  ;  and  there  is  none  be- 
side. 

Horrible  thought !  Permitted  but  to  few,  and  to  them  — 
thank  God  !  — but  rarely.  For  two  minutes  of  that  absolute 
self-isolation  would  bring  madness  ;  if,  incieed,  it  be  not  the 
very  essence  of  madness  itself. 

There  he  stood  ;  he  knew  not  how  long  ;  without  motion, 


NATURE'S   MELODRAMA.  409 

Without  thought,  without  even  rage  or  hate,  now  —  in  one 

blank  paralysis  of  his  whole  nature  ;  conscious  only  of  self, 

and  of  a  dull,  inward  fire,  as  if  his  soul  were  a  dark  vault, 

lighted  with  lurid  smoke. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

What  -was  that  ?  He  started  ;  shuddered  —  as  well  he 
might.  Had  he  seen  heaven  opened  ?  or  another  place  ? 
So  momentary  was  the  vision,  that  he  scarce  knew  what  he 
saw. 

There  it  was  again  I  Lasting  but  for  a  moment ;  but  long 
enough  to  let  him  see  the  whole  western  heaven  transfig- 
ured into  one  sheet  of  pale  blue  gauze,  and  before  it  Snow- 
don  towering  black  as  ink,  with  every  saw  and  crest  cut 
out,  hard  and  terrible,  against  the  lightning-glare  ;  —  and 
then  the  blank  of  darkness. 

Again !  The  awful  black  giant,  towering  high  in  air, 
before  the  gates  of  that  blue  abyss  of  tiame  ;  but  a  black 
crown  of  cloud  has  settled  upon  his  head  ;  and  out  of  it  the 
lightning  sparks  leap  to  and  fro,  ringing  his  brows  with  a 
coronet  of  fire. 

Another  moment,  and  the  roar  of  that  great  battle  be- 
tween earth  and  heaven  crashed  full  on  Elsley's  ears. 

He  heard  it  leap  from  Snowdon,  sharp  and  rattling,  across 
the  gulf  toward  him,  till  it  crashed  full  upon  the  Glyder 
over  head,  and  rolled  and  flapped  from  crag  to  crag,  and 
died  away  along  the  dreary  downs.  No  I  There  it  boomed 
out  again,  thundering  full  against  Siabod  on  the  left ;  and 
Siabod  tossed  it  on  to  Moel  Meirch,  who  answered  from  all 
her  clefts  and  peaks  with  a  long,  confused  battle-growl,  and 
then  tossed  it  across  to  Aran  ;  and  Aran,  with  one  dull, 
bluff  report  from  her  flat  cliflf,  to  nearer  Lliwedd  ;  till,  worn 
out  with  the  long  buffetings  of  that  giant  ring,  it  sank  and 
died  on  Gwynnant  fltr  below  ;  but,  ere  it  died,  another  and 
another  thunder-crash  burst,  sharper  and  nearer  every  time, 
to  hurry  nnind  the  hills  after  the  one  which  I'oared  before 
it. 

Another  minute,  and  the  blue  glare  filled  the  sky  once 
more  ;  but  no  black  Titan  towered  before  it  now.  The 
storm  had  leapt  Llanberris  pass,  and  all  around  Elsley  was 
one  howling  chaos  of  cloud,  and  rain,  and  blinding  flame. 
He  turned  and  fled  again. 

By  the  sensation  of  his  feet,  he  knew  that  he  was  going 

up  hill ;  and  if  he  but  went  upward  he  cared  not  whither  ho 

went.       The    rain    gushed    through,    where    the   lightning 

pierced   the  cloud,  iji  drops  like  musket  balls.     He  was 

35 


410  nature's  melodrama. 

drenched  to  the  skin  in  a  moment ;  dazzled  and  giddy  from 
the  flashes  ;  stunned  by  the  everlasting  roar,  peal  over-rush- 
ing peal,  echo  out-shouting  echo,  till  rocks  and  air  quivered 
alike  beneath  the  continuous  battle-cannonade. — "  What 
matter  r*  What  fitter  guide  for  such  a  path  as  mine  than 
the  blue  lightning  flashes  ?  " 

Poor  wretch  !  He  had  gone  out  of  his  way  for  many  a 
year,  to  give  himself  up,  a  willing  captive,  to  the  melo-dra- 
matic  view  of  nature,  and  had  let  sights  and  sounds,  not 
principles  and  duties,  mould  his  feelings  for  him  ;  and  now, 
in  his  utter  need  and  utter  weakness,  he  had  met  her  in  a 
mood  which  was  too  awful  for  such  as  he  was  to  resist. 
The  Nemesis  had  come  ;  and  swept  away  helplessly,  with- 
out faith  and  hope,  by  those  outward  impressions  of  things 
on  which  he  had  feasted  his  soul  so  long,  he  was  the  puppet 
of  his  own  eyes  and  ears ;  the  slave  of  glare  and  noise. 

Breathless,  but  still  untired,  he  toiled  up  a  steep  incline, 
where  he  could  feel  beneath  him  neither  moss  nor  herb. 
Now  and  then  his  feet  brushed  through  a  soft  tuft  of  pars- 
ley fern  ;  but  soon  even  that  sign  of  vegetation  ceased  ;  his 
feet  only  rasped  over  rough  bare  rock,  and  he  was  alone  in 
a  desert  of  stone. 

What  was  that  sudden  apparition  above  him,  seen  for  a 
moment  dim  and  gigantic  through  the  mist,  hid  the  next  in 
darkness  ?  The  next  Hash  showed  him  a  line  of  obelisks, 
like  giants  crouching  side  by  side,  staring  down  on  him 
from  the  clouds.  Another  five  minutes,  and  he  was  at  their 
feet,  and  past  them  ;  to  see  above  them  again  another  line 
of  awful  watchers  through  the  stoi-ms  and  rains  of  many  a 
thousand  years,  waiting,  grim  and  silent,  like  those  doomed 
senators  in  the  Capitol  of  Rome,  till  their  own  turn  should 
come,  and  the  last  lightning  stroke  hurl  them  too  down,  to 
lie  forever  by  their  fallen  brothers,  whose  mighty  bones 
bestrewed  the  screes  below. 

He  groped  his  way  between  them  ;  saw  some  fifty  yards 
beyond  a  higher  peak  ;  gained  it  by  fierce  struggles  and 
many  fulls  ;  saw  another  beyond  that ;  and,  rushing  down 
and  up  two  slopes  of  moss,  reached  a  region  where  the  up- 
right lava-ledges  had  been  split  asunder  into  chasms, 
crushed  together  again  into  caves,  toppled  over  each  other, 
hurled  up  into  spires,  in  such  chaotic  confusion,  that  prog- 
ress seemed  impossible. 

A  flash  of  lightning  revealed  a  lofty  cairn  above  his  head 
There  was  yet,  then,  a  higher  point  I  He  would  reach  it  il 
he  broke  every  limb  in  the  attempt !  and  madly  he  hurried 


natuee's  melodrama.  411 

on,  feeling  his  way  from  ledge  to  ledge,  squeezing  himself 
through  crannies,  crawling  on  hands  and  knees  along  the 
sharp  chines  of  the  rocks,  till  he  reached  the  foot  of  the 
cairn  ;  climbed  it,  and  threw  himself  at  full  length  on  the 
summit  of  the  Glyder  Vawr. 

An  awful  place  it  always  is  ;  and  Elsley  saw  it  at  an 
awful  time,  as  the  glare  unveiled  below  him  a  sea  of  rock- 
waves,  all  sharp  on  edge,  pointing  toward  him  on  every 
side  ;  or  rather  one  wave-crest  of  a  sea  ;  for  twenty  yai'ds 
beyond  all  sloped  away  into  the  abysmal  dark. 

Terrible  were  those  rocks  below  ;  and  ten  times  more  ter- 
rible as  seen  through  the  lurid  glow  of  his  distempered 
brain.  All  the  weird  peaks  and  slabs  seemed  pointing  up 
at  him  ;  sharp-toothed  jaws  gaped  upward  —  tongues  hissed 
upward  —  arms  pointed  upward  —  hounds  leaped  upward 
—  monstrous  snake-heads  peered  upward  out  of  cracks  and 
caves.  Did  he  not  see  them  move,  writhe  ?  or  was  it  the 
ever-shifting  light  of  the  flashes  ?  Did  he  not  hear  them 
howl,  yell  at  him  ?  or  was  it  but  the  wind,  tortured  in  their 
labyrinthine  caverns  ? 

The  next  moment,  and  all  was  dark  again  ;  but  the  images 
which  had  been  called  up  remained,  and  fastened  on  his 
brain,  and  grew  there  ;  and  when,  in  the  light  of  the  next 
flash,  the  scene  returned,  he  could  see  the  red  lips  of  the 
phantom  hounds,  the  bright  eyes  of  the  phantom  snakes  ; 
the  tongues  wagged  in  mockery ;  the  hands  brandished 
great  stones  to  hurl  at  him  ;  the  mountain-top  was  instinct 
with  fiendish  life,  —  a  very  Blocksberg  of  all  hideous  shapes 
and  sins. 

And  yet  he  did  not  shrink.  Horrible  it  was  ;  he  was 
going  mad  before  it.  And  yet  he  took  a  strange  and  fierce 
delight  in  making  it  more  horrible  ;  in  maddening  himself 
yet  more  and  more  ;  in  clothing  those  fantastic  stones  with 
every  fancy  which  could  inspire  another  man  with  dread. 
But  he  had  no  dread.  Perfect  rage,  like  perfect  love,  casts 
out  fear.  He  rejoiced  in  his  own  misery,  in  his  own  dan- 
ger. His  life  hung  on  a  thread  ;  any  instant  might  hurl 
him  from  that  cairn,  a  blackened  corpse. 

What  better  end  ?  Let  it  come  !  He  was  Prometheus 
on  the  peak  of  Caucasus,  hurling  defiance  at  the  unjust  Jove  ! 
His  hopes,  his  love,  his  very  honor — curse  it !  —  ruined  I 
Let  the  lightning  stroke  come  !  He  were  a  coward  to  shrink 
from  it.  Let  him  face  the  worst,  unprotected,  bare-headed, 
naked,  and  do  battle  himself,  and  nothing  but  himself, 
fcgainst  the  universe  !     And,  as  men  at  such  moments  will 


412  nature's  melodrama. 

do,  in  the  mad  desire  to  free  the  self-tortured  spirit  froro 
some  unseen  and  choking  bond,  he  began  wildly  tearing  oflf 
his  elothes. 

But  merciful  nature  brought  relief,  and  stopped  him  in  hia 
mad  eflbrts,  or  he  had  been  a  frozen  corpse  long  ere  the 
dawn.  His  hands,  stiif  with  cold,  rei'used  to  obey  him  ;  as 
lie  delaj'ed,  he  was  saved.  After  the  paroxysm,  came  the 
collapse  ;  he  sank  upon  the  top  of  the  cairn  hall"  senseless. 
1I(;  felt  himself  falling  over  its  edge  ;  and  the  animal  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  unconsciously  to  him,  made  him  slide 
down  gently,  till  he  sank  into  a  crack  between  two  rocks, 
sheltered  somewhat,  as  it  befell  happily,  from  the  lashing 
of  the  rain. 

Another  minute,  and  he  slept  a  dreamless  sleep. 

But  there  are  two  men  upon  that  mountain  wliom  neither 
rock  nor  rain,  storm  nor  thunder,  have  conquered,  because 
they  are  simply  brave,  honest  men  ;  and  who  are,  perhaps, 
far  more  "  poetic  "  characters  at  this  moment  tiuin  Elsley 
Vavasour,  or  any  dozen  of  mere  verse-writers,  because  they 
are  hazarding  their  lives  on  an  errand  of  mercy  ;  and  all 
tlie  while  have  so  little  notion  that  they  are  hazarding  their 
lives,  or  doing  anytliing  dangerous  or  heroic,  that,  instead 
of  being  touched  for  a  moment  by  Nature's  melodrama,  they 
are  jesting  at  each  other's  troubles,  greeting  each  interval 
of  darkness  with  mock  shouts  of  misery  and  despair,  liken- 
ing the  crags  to  various  fogies  of  their  acquaintance,  male 
and  female,  and  only  pulling  the  cutty  pipes  out  of  their 
mouths  to  chant  snatches  of  jovial  songs.  They  are  Wynd 
and  Naylor,  the  two  Cambriilge  boating-men,  in  bedrabbled 
flannel  trousers,  and  shooting-jackets  pocketful  of  water  ; 
who  are  both  fully  agreed  that  hunting  a  mad  poet  over  the 
mountains  in  a  thunder-storm  is,  on  the  whole,  "the  jolliest 
lark  they  ever  had  in  their  lives." 

"  He  must  have  gone  up  here  somewhere.  I  saw  the  po'^r 
beggar  against  the  sky  as  plain  as  I  see  you, — which  I 
don't"  — lor  darkness  cut  the  speech  short. 

"  Where  be  you,  William  ?  "  says  the  keeper. 

"  Here  I  be,  sir,"  says  the  beater,  "  with  my  'eels  above 
my  'ed." 

"  Werry  well,  Willam  ;  when  you  get  you  'ed  above  yout 
*ecls,  gae  on." 

"But  I'm  stuck  fast  between  two  stones  I  Hang  the 
Btones  !  "  And  Naylor  bursts  into  an  old  seventeouth  cen- 
tury ditty,  of  the  days  of  "  three-man  glees." 


nature's  melodrama.  413 

•  They  stoans,  they  stoans,  they  stoans,  they  stoans  — 
They  stoans  that  built  George  Riddler's  oven. 


» 


0,  they  was  fetched  fioin  Bl;ikeney  quarr 
And  George  he  was  a  jollj'  old  man, 
And  his  head  did  grow  above  his  har'. 

"  One  thing  in  George  Riddler  I  must  commend. 
And  I  hold  it  for  a  valiant  thing  ; 
"With  any  three  brothers  in  Gloucestershire 
He  swore  that  his  three  sons  should  sing. 

"  There  was  Dick  the  tribble,  and  Tom  the  mane. 
Let  every  man  sing  in  his  own  place  ; 
And  William  he  was  the  eldest  brother. 
And  therefore  he  should  sing  the  base.  — 

I'm  down  again  I     This  is  my  thirteenth  fall." 

"  So  am  I  !     I  shall  just  lie  and  light  a  pipe." 

"  Come  on,  now,  and  look  round  the  lee  side  of  this  crag. 
We  shall  find  him  bundled  up  under  the  lee  of  one  of  them." 

"He  don't  know  lee  from  windward,  I  dare  say." 

"  He  '11  soon  find  out  the  difference  by  his  skin,  if  it  'a 
half  as  wet,  at  least,  as  mine  is." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Naylor,  if  the  poor  fellow  has  crossed 
the  ridge,  and  tried  to  go  down  on  the  Twll  du,  he  's  a  dead 
man  by  this  time." 

"  He  '11  have  funked  it,  when  he  comes  to  the  edge,  and 
sees  nothing  but  mist  below.  But  if  he  has  wandered  on 
to  the  cliffs  above  Trifaen,  he  's  a  dead  man  then,  at  all 
events.  Get  out  of  the  way  of  that  flash  !  A  close  shave, 
that  I     I  believe  my  whiskers  are  singed." 

"  'Pon  my  honor,  Wynd,  we  ought  to  be  saying  our 
prayers,  rather  than  joking  in  this  way." 

"  We  may  do  both,  and  be  none  the  worse.  As  for  com- 
ing to  grief,  old  boy,  we're  on  a  good  errand,  I  suppose  ; 
and  the  devil  himself  can't  harm  us.  Still,  shame  to  him 
who  's  ashamed  of  saying  his  prayers,  as  Arnold  used  to 
Bay." 

And  all  the  while  these  two  brave  lads  have  been  thrust- 
ing their  lantern  into  every  crack  and  cranny,  and  beating 
round  every  crag  carefully  and  cunningly,  till  long  past  two 
in  the  morning. 

"  Here 's  the  ordinance  cairn,  at  last;  and  —  here  am  I 
astride  of  a  carving-knife,  I  think  1  Come  and  help  me  off. 
or  I  shall  be  split  to  the  chin  !  " 

"I'm  coming!  What's  this  soft  under  my  feet? 
WTio  —  o  —  o  —  oop  !     Run  him  to  earth  at  last !  *' 

And,  diving  down  into  a  crack,  Wynd  drags  out  by  the 
collar  the  unconscious  Elsley. 
35* 


414  nature's  melodrama. 

"  What  a  swab  1  Like  a  piece  of  wet  blotting-paper  1 
Lucky  he  's  not  made  of  salt." 

"  He 's  dead  1  "  says  Nay  lor. 

"  Not  a  bit.  I  can  feel  his  heart.  There  's  life  in  the  old 
Aog'yet." 

And  they  begin,  under  the  lee  of  a  rock,  chafing  him, 
wrapping  him  in  their  plaids,  and  pouring  whiskey  down 
his  throat. 

It  was  some  time  before  Vavasour  recovered  his  conscious- 
ness. The  first  use  which  he  made  of  it  was  to  bid  his 
preservers  leave  him  ;  querulously  at  first ;  and  tlien  fiercely, 
when  he  found  out  who  they  were. 

"  Leave  me,  I  say  !  Cannot  I  be  alone  if  I  choose  ?  What 
right  have  you  to  dog  me  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  we  have  as  much  right  here  as  any  one 
else  ;  and  if  we  find  a  man  dying  here  of  cold  and  fatigue  —  " 

"  What  business  of  yours,  if  I  choose  to  die  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  your  dying,  sir,"  says  Naylor.  "  The 
harm  is  in  our  letting  you  die.  I  assure  you  it  is  entirely  to 
satisfy  our  own  consciences  we  are  troubling  you  thus  ;  " 
and  he  begins  pressing  him  to  take  food. 

"  No,  sir  ;  nothing  from  you  1  You  have  shown  me  im- 
pertinence enough  in  the  last  few  weeks,  without  pressing 
on  me  benefits  for  which  I  do  not  wish.  Let  me  go  !  If 
you  will  not  leave  me,  I  shall  leave  you  !  " 

And  he  tried  to  rise  ;  but,  stiffened  with  cold,  sank  back 
again  upon  the  rock. 

In  vain  they  tried  to  reason  with  him  ;  begged  his  pardon 
for  all  past  jests.  He  made  effort  after  effort  to  get  up  ;  and 
at  last,  his  limbs,  regaining  strength  from  the  fierceness  of 
his  passion,  supported  him  ;  and  he  struggled  onward  toward 
the  northern  slope  of  the  mountain. 

"  You  must  not  go  down  till  it  is  light ;  it  is  as  much  as 
your  life  is  worth." 

"  I  am  going  to  Bangor,  sir  ;  and  go  I  will  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  there  is  fifteen  hundred  feet  of  slippery  screes 
below  you." 

"  As  steep  as  a  house-roof,  and  with  every  tile  on  it  loose. 
You  will  roll  from  top  to  bottom  before  you  have  gone  a 
hundred  yards." 

"  What  care  I  ?  Let  me  go,  I  say  !  Curse  you,  sir  1  Do 
you  mean  to  use  force  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Wynd,  quietly,  as  he  took  him  round  arms 
aud  body,  and  set  him  down  on  the  rock  like  a  child 


nature's  melodrama.  415 

"  "Sou  lave  assaulted  me,  sir  !  The  law  shall  avenge  this 
insult,  if  then*  be  law  in  England  I  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  law  ;  but  I  suppose  it  will  justify 
me  in  saving  any  man's  life  who  is  rushing  to  certain 
death." 

"  Look  here,  sir  !  "  said  Naylor.  "  Go  dcwn,  if  you  will, 
when  it  grows  light ;  but  from  this  place  you  do  not  stir 
yet.  Whatever  you  may  think  of  our  conduct  to-night,  you 
wnll  thank  us  for  it  to-morrow  morning,  when  you  see  where 
you  are." 

The  unhappy  man  stamped  with  rage.  The  red  glare  of 
the  lantern  showed  him  his  two  powerful  warders,  standing 
right  and  left,  lie  felt  that  there  was  no  escape  from  them 
but  in  darkness  ;  and  suddenly  he  dashed  at  the  lantern, 
and  tried  to  tear  it  out  of  Wynd's  hands. 

"  Steady,  sir  I  "  said  Wynd,  springing  back,  and  parrying 
his  outstretched  hand.  "  If  you  wish  us  to  consider  you  in 
your  senses,  you  will  be  quiet." 

"And  if  you  don't  choose  to  appear  sane,"  said  Naylor, 
"  you  must  not  be  surprised  if  we  treat  you  as  men  are 
treated  who — you  understand  me." 

Elsley  was  silent  a  while  ;  his  rage,  finding  itself  impo- 
tent, subsided  into  dark  cunning.  "  Really,  gentlemen," 
he  said,  at  length,  "I  believe  you  are  right;  1  have  been 
very  foolish,  and  you  very  kind  ;  but  you  would  excuse  my 
absurdities  if  you  knew  their  provocation." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Naylor,  "we  are  bound  to  believe 
that  you  have  good  cause  enough  for  what  you  are  doing. 
We  have  no  wish  to  interfere  impertinently.  Only  wait  till 
daylight,  and  wrap  yourself  in  one  of  our  plaids,  as  the  only 
possible  method  of  carrying  out  your  own  intentions  ;  for 
dead  men  can't  go  to  Bangor,  whithersoever  else  they  may 
go." 

"  You  really  are  too  kind  ;  but  1  believe  1  must  accept 
your  offer,  under  penalty  of  being  called  mad  ;  "  and  Elsley 
laughed  a  hollow  laugh  ;  for  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that 
he  was  not  mad.  He  took  the  proffered  wrapper,  lay  down, 
and  seemed  to  sleep. 

Wynd  and  Naylor,  congratulating  themselves  on  his  better 
mind,  lay  down  also  beneath  the  other  plaid,  intending  to 
watch  Lim.  But,  worn  out  with  fatigue,  they  were  both 
fast  asleep  ere  ten  minutes  had  passed. 

Elsley  had  determined  to  keep  himself  awake  at  all  risks  ; 
and  he  paid  a  bitter  penalty  for  so  doing ;  for  now  that  the 
fury  had  ;)assod  away,  his  brain  began  to  work  freely  again, 


416  nature's  melodrama. 

and  inflicted  torture  so  exquisite  that  he  looked  back  \dth 
regret  on  the  unreasoning  madness  of  lust  night,  as  a  lesa 
fearful  hell  than  that  of  thought;  of  deliberate,  acute  recol- 
lections, suspicions,  trains  of  argument,  which  he  tried  to 
thrust  from  him,  and  yet  could  not.  Wlio  lias  not  known  in 
the  still,  sleepless  hours  of  night,  how  dark  tlioughts  will 
possess  the  mind  with  terrors,  which  seem  logical,  irrefraga 
ble,  inevitable  ? 

So  it  was  then  with  the  wretched  Elslcy  ;  within  his  mind 
a  whole  train  of  devil's  advocates  seemed  arguing,  with 
triumphant  subtlety,  the  certainty  of  Lucia's  treason  :  and 
justiiying  to  him  his  rage,  his  hatred,  his  flight,  his  deser- 
tion of  his  own  children,  —  if  indeed  (so  far  "had  the  devil 
led  him  astray)  they  were  his  own.  At  last  he  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  lie  would  escape  to  Bangor,  and  then  to  Lon- 
don, cross  to  France,  to  Italy,  and  there  bury  himself  amid 
the  forests  of  the  Apennines,  or  the  sunny  glens  of  Cala- 
bria. And  for  a  moment  the  vision  of  a  poet's  life  in  that 
glorious  land  brightened  his  dark  imagination.  Yes  !  He 
would  escape  thither,  and  be  at  peace  ;  and  if  the  world 
heard  of  him  again,  it  should  be  in  such  a  thunder  voice  as 
those  with  which  Shelley  and  Byron,  from  their  southern 
seclusion,  had  shaken  the  ungrateful  mother-land  which  cast 
them  out.  He  would  escape  ;  and  now  was  the  time  to  do 
it !  For  the  rain  had  long  since  ceased  ;  the  dawn  was 
approaching  fast ;  the  cloud  was  thinning  from  black  to 
pearly  gray.  Now  was  his  time  —  were  it  not  for  those 
two  men  !  To  be  kept,  guarded,  stopped  by  them,  or  by 
any  man  !  Shameful  !  intolerable  !  He  had  fled  hither  to 
be  free,  and  even  here  he  found  himself  a  prisoner.  True, 
they  had  promised  to  let  him  go  if  he  waited  till  daylight, 
but  perhaps  they  were  deceiving  him,  as  he  was  deceiving 
them  —  why  not  ?  They  thouglit  him  mad.  It  was  a  ruse, 
a  stratagem,  to  keep  him  quiet  a  while,  and  then  bring  him 
back,  —  "  restore  him  to  his  afflicted  friends."  Plis  fri(Mids, 
truly  !  He  would  be  too  cunning  for  them  yet.  And  even 
if  they  meant  to  let  him  go,  would  he  accept  liberty  from 
th(!m,  or  any  man  ?  No  ;  he  was  free  !  He  had  a  right  to 
go  ;  and  go  he  would,  that  moment ! 

He  raised  himself  cautiously.  The  lantern  had  burned 
to  the  socket ;  and  he  could  not  see  the  men,  though  they 
were  not  four  yards  off";  but  by  their  regular  and  heavy 
breathing  he  could  tell  that  they  both  slept  soundly.  He 
tjlipped  from  under  the  plaid  ;  drew  off  his  shoes,  for  feai 
of  noise  among  the  rocks,  and  rose.     What  if  he  did  mak« 


NATURE'S   MELODRAMA.  417 

a  noise  ?  What  if  they  woke,  chased  him,  brought  him 
bick  by  force  ?  Curse  the  thought !  And,  gliding  close  to 
them,  he  listened  again  to  their  heavy  breathing. 

How  could  he  prevent  their  following  him  ? 

A  horrible,  nameless  temptation  came  over  him.  Every 
vein  in  his  body  throbbed  fire  ;  his  brain  seemed  to  swell  to 
bursting ;  and,  ere  he  was  aware,  he  found  himself  feeling 
about  in  the  darkness  for  a  loose  stone. 

He  could  not  find  one.  Thank  God  that  he  could  not 
find  one  !  But,  after  that  dreadful  thought  had  once  crossed 
his  mind,  he  must  liee  from  that  place  ere  the  brand  of  Cain 
be  on  his  brow. 

With  a  cunning  and  activity  utterly  new  to  him,  he  glided 
away,  like  a  snake  ;  downward  over  crags  and  boulders,  he 
knew  not  how  long  or  how  far ;  all  he  knew  was,  that  he 
was  going  down,  down,  down,  into  a  dim  abyss.  There 
was  just  light  enough  to  discern  the  upper  surface  of  a  rock 
within  arm's  length  ;  beyond  that  all  was  blank.  He  seemed 
to  be  hours  descending ;  to  be  going  down  miles  after  miles  ; 
and  still  he  reached  no  level  spot.  The  mountain-side  was 
too  steep  for  him  to  stand  upright,  except  at  moments.  It 
seemed  one  uniform  quarry  of  smooth  broken  slate,  slipping 
down  forever  beneath  his  feet.  Whither  ?  He  grew  giddy, 
and  more  giddy  ;  and  a  horrible  fantastic  notion  seized  him, 
that  he  had  lost  his  way  ;  that,  somehow,  the  precipice  had 
no  bottom,  no  end  at  all ;  that  he  was  going  down  some 
infinite  abyss,  into  the  very  depths  of  the  earth,  and  the  molt- 
en roots  of  the  mountains,  never  to  reascend.  He  stopped, 
trembling,  only  to  slide  down  again  ;  terrified,  he  tried  to 
struggle  upward  ;  but  the  shale  gave  way  beneath  his  feet, 
and  go  he  must. 

What  was  that  noise  above  his  head  ?  A  falling  stone  'i 
Were  his  enemies  in  pursuit  ?  Down  to  the  depths  of  hell, 
rather  than  that  they  should  take  him  1  He  drove  his  heels 
into  the  slippery  shale,  and  rushed  forward  blindly,  spring- 
ing, slipping,  falling,  rolling,  till  he  stopped  breathless  on 
a  jutting  slab. 

And,  lo  !  below  him,  through  the  thin  pearly  veil  of 
cloud,  a  dim  world  of  dark  cliffs,  blue  lakes,  gray  mountains 
with  their  dark  heads  wrapped  in  cloud,  and  the  straight 
vale  of  Nant  Francon,  magnified  in  mist,  till  it  seemed  to 
stretch  for  hundreds  of  leagues  toward  the  rosy  north-east 
dawning  and  the  shining  sea. 

With  a  wild  shout  he  hurried  onward.  ,  In  five  minutes 
he  was  clear  of  the  cloud.     He  reached  the  foot  of  that 


418  nature's  melodrama. 

enormous  slope,  and  hurried  over  rocky  ways,  till  he  stepped 
at  the  top  of  a  precipice,  full  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
lonely  tarn  of  Idwal. 

Never  mind.  lie  knew  where  he  was  now  ;  he  knew  that 
there  was  a  passage  somewhere,  for  he  had  once  seen  one 
from  below,  lie  found  it,  and  almost  ran  along  the  boggy 
shore  of  Idwal,  looking  back  every  now  and  then  at  the 
black  wall  of  the  TwU  du,  in  dread  lest  he  should  see  two 
moving  specks  in  hot  pursuit. 

And  now  he  had  gained  the  shore  of  Ogwen,  and  the 
broad  coach-road  ;  and  down  it  he  strode,  running  at  times, 
past  the  roaring  cataract,  past  the  enormous  clifis  of  the 
Carnedds,  past  Tin-y-maes,  where  nothing  was  stirring  but 
a  barking  dog  ;  on  tlirough  the  sleeping  streets  of  Bethesda, 
past  the  black  stairs  of  the  Penrhyn  quarry.  The  huge 
clicking  ant-heap  was  silent  now,  save  for  the  roar  of  Og- 
wen, as  he  swirled  and  bubbled  down,  rich  coffee-brown 
from  last  night's  rain. 

On,  past  rich  woods,  past  trim  cottages,  gardens  gay 
with  flowers  ;  past  rhododendron  shrubberies,  broad  fields 
of  golden  stubble,  sweet  clover,  and  gray  swedes,  with 
Ogwen  making  music  far  below.  The  sun  is  up  at  last,  and 
Colonel  Pennant's  grim  slate  castle,  towering  above  black 
woods,  glitters  metallic  in  its  rays,  like  Chaucer's  house  of 
fame.  He  stops,  to  look  back  once.  Far  up  the  vale,  eight 
miles  away,  beneath  a  roof  of  cloud,  the  pass  of  Nant  Francon 
gapes  high  in  air  between  the  great  jaws  of  the  Carnedd  and 
the  Glyder,  its  cliff  marked  with  the  upright  white  line  of 
the  waterfall.  lie  is  clear  of  the  mountains  ;  clear  of  that 
cursed  place,  and  all  its  cursed  thoughts !  On,  past 
Llandegai  and  all  its  rose-clad  cottages  ;  past  yellow  quar- 
rymen  walking  out  to  their  work,  who  stare  as  they  pass  at 
his  haggard  face,  drenched  clothes,  and  streaming  hair. 
He  does  not  see  them.  One  fixed  thought  is  in  his  mind, 
and  that  is,  the  railway  station  at  Bangor. 

lie  is  striding  through  Bangor  streets  now,  beside  the 
summer  sea,  from  which  fresh  scents  of  shore-weed  greet 
bim.  He  had  rather  smell  the  smoke  and  gas  of  the 
Strand. 

The  station  is  shut.  He  looks  at  the  bill  outside.  There 
is  no  train  for  full  two  hours  ;  and  he  throws  himself,  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  upon  the  door-step. 

Now  a  new  terror  seizes  him.  Has  he  money  enough  to 
reach  London  ?  Has  he  his  purse  at  all  ?  Too  dreadful  to 
find  himself  stopped  shor*,  on  the  very  briuk  of  deliverance  I 


nature's  melodrama.  419 

A  cold  perspiration  breaks  from  his  forehead,  as  be  feels  ic 
every  pocket.  Yes,  his  purse  is  there  ;  but  he  turns  sick 
as  he  opens  it,  and  dare  hardly  look.  Hurrah  !  Five  pounds, 
six — eight!  That  will  take  him  as  far  as  Paris.  He  can 
walk  ;  beg  the  rest  of  the  way,  if  need  be. 

What  will  he  do  now  ?  Wander  over  the  town,  and  gaze 
vacantly  at  one  little  object  and  another  about  the  house- 
fronts.  One  thing  he  will  not  look  at ;  and  that  is  the  bright 
summer  sea,  all  golden  in  the  sun-rays,  flecked  with  gay 
white  sails.  From  all  which  is  bright,  and  calm,  and  cheer- 
ful, his  soul  shrinks  as  from  an  impertinence  ;  he  longs  for 
the  lurid  gas-light  of  Loudon,  and  the  roar  of  the  Strand, 
and  the  everlasting  stream  of  faces,  among  whom  he  may 
wander  free,  sure  that  no  one  will  recognize  him,  the  dis- 
graced, the  desperate. 

The  weary  hours  roll  on.  Too  tired  to  stand  longer,  he 
sits  down  on  the  shafts  of  a  cart,  and  trios  not  to  think.  It 
is  not  difficult.  Body  and  mind  are  alike  worn  out,  and  his 
brain  seems  filled  with  uniform  dull  mist. 

A  shop-door  opens  in  front  of  him  ;  a  boy  comes  out. 
He  sees  bottles  inside,  and  shelves,  the  look  of  which  he 
knows  too  well. 

The  bottle  boy,  whistling,  begins  to  take  the  shutters 
down.  How  often,  in  Whitbury  of  old,  had  Elsley  done  the 
same  1  Half  amused,  he  watched  the  lad,  and  wondered 
how  he  spent  his  evenings,  and  what  works  he  read,  and 
whether  he  ever  thought  of  writing  poetry. 

And,  as  he  watched,  all  his  past  life  rose  up  before  him, 
ever  since  he  served  out  medicines  fifteen  years  ago  ;  —  his 
wild  aspirations,  heavy  labors,  struggles,  plans,  brief  tri- 
umphs, long  disappointments  ;  and  here  was  what  it  had  all 
come  to,  —  a  failure,  —  a  miserable,  shameful  failure  !  Not 
that  he  thought  of  it  with  repentance,  with  a  single  wish 
that  he  had  done  otherwise  ;  but  only  with  disappointed 
rage.     "  Yes!  "  he  said  bitterly  to  himself — 

•  We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness, 
But  after  come  despondency  and  madness.' 

This  is  the  way  of  the  world  with  all  who  have  nobler  feel- 
ings in  them  than  will  fit  into  its  cold  rules.  Curse  the 
world  !  —  what  on  earth  had  I  to  do  with  mixing  myself  up 
in  it,  and  marrying  a  fine  lady  ?  Fool  that  I  was  !  I  might 
have  known  from  the  first  that  she  could  not  understand 
me  ;  that  she  would  go  back  to  her  own  !     Let  her  go  1     ] 


420  nature's  melodrama. 

will  forget  her,  and  the  world,  and  every  thin  c^  —  and  I  kno\^ 
howl" 

And,  springing  up,  he  walked  across  to  the  druggist's 
shop. 

Years  before,  Elsley  had  tried  opium,  and  found,  unhap- 
pily for  hiin,  that  it  fed  his  fancy  without  inflicting  tiiose 
tortures  of  indigestion  which  keep  many,  happily  for  theju, 
from  its  magic  snare,  lie  had  tried  it  more  than  once  of 
late  ;  but  Lucia  had  had  a  hint  of  the  fact  from  Thurnall,  and 
iu  just  terror  had  exacted  from  him  a  solemn  pi'omise  never 
to  touch  opium  again.  Elsley  was  a  man  of  honor,  and  the 
promise  had  been  kept.  But  now  —  "  I  promised  her,  and 
therefore  I  will  break  my  promise !  She  has  broken  hers, 
and  I  am  free  !  " 

And  he  went  in  and  bought  his  opium.  He  took  a  little 
on  the  spot,  to  allay  the  cravings  of  hunger.  He  reserved 
a  full  dose  for  the  railway-carriage.  It  would  bridge  over 
the  weary  gulf  of  time  which  lay  between  him  and  town. 

He  took  his  second-class  place  at  last ;  not  without  starea 
and  whispers  from  those  round  at  the  wild  figure  which  was 
starting  for  London,  without  bag  or  baggage.  But  as  the 
clerks  agreed,  "  If  he  was  running  away  from  his  creditors, 
it  was  a  shame  to  stop  him.  If  he  was  running  from  the 
police,  they  would  have  the  more  sport  the  longer  the  run. 
At  least,  it  was  no  business  of  theirs." 

There  was  one  thing  more  to  do,  and  he  did  it.  He  wrote 
to  Campbell  a  short  note. 

"If,  as  I  suppose,  you  expect  from  me  'the  satisfaction 
of  a  gentleman,'  you  will  find  me  at  *  *  *  *  Adelphi.  I  am 
not  escaping  from  you,  but  from  the  whole  world.  If,  by 
shooting  me,  you  can  quicken  my  escape,  you  will  do  me 
the  first  and  last  favor  which  1  am  likely  to  ask  for  from  you." 

He  posted  his  letter,  settled  himself  in  a  corner  of  the  car- 
riage, and  took  his  second  dose  of  opium.  From  that  mo- 
ment he  recollected  little  more.  A  confused  whirl  of 
hedges  and  woods,  rattling  stations,  screaming  and  Hashing 
trains,  great  red  towns,  white  chalk  •  cuttings ;  while  the 
everlasting  ri)ar  and  rattle  of  the  carriages  shaped  them- 
selves in  his  brain  into  a  hundred  snatches  of  old  tunes,  all 
full  of  a  stniiige  merriment,  as  if  mocking  at  his  misery, 
striving  to  keep  him  awake  and  conscious  of  who  and  what 
he  was.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  shutout  the  hateful  garish 
world  ;  but  that  sound  he  could  not  shut  out.  Too  tired  to 
sleep,  too  tired  even  to  think,  he  could  do  nothing  but  sub- 
mit to  the  ridiculous  torment ;  watching  in  spite  of  himself 


nature's  melodrama.  421 

every  ncte,  as  one  jig-tune  after  another  was  fiddled  by  all 
the  imps  close  to  his  ear,  mile  after  mile,  and  county  aftei 
county,  for  all  that  weary  day,  which  seemed  full  seven 
years  lon_g. 

At  Euston  Square  the  porter  called  him  several  times  ere 
he  could  rouse  him.  He  could  hear  nothing  for  a  while  but 
that  sam(!  imps'  melody,  even  though  it  had  stopped.  At 
last  he  got  out,  staring  round  him,  shook  himself  awake  by 
one  strong  effort,  and  hurried  away,  not  knowing  whither 
he  went. 

Wrapt  up  in  self,  he  wandered  on  till  dark,  slept  on  a 
door-step,  and  woke,  not  knowing  at  first  where  he  was. 
Gradually  all  the  horror  came  back  to  him,  and  with  the 
horror  the  craving  for  opium  wherewith  to  forget  it. 

He  looked  round  to  see  his  whereabouts.  Surely  this 
must  be  Golden  Square?  A  sudden  thought  struck  him. 
He  went  to  a  chemist's  shop,  bought  a  fresh  supply  of  hia 
poison,  and,  taking  only  enough  to  allay  the  cravings  of  his 
Blomach,  hurried  tottering  in  tbe  direction  of  Drury  Lano 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

FOND,   YET   NOT   FOOLISH. 

Next  morning,  only  Claude  and  Campbell  made  theii 
appearance  at  breakfast. 

Frank  came  in  ;  found  that  Valencia  was  not  down  •  and, 
too  excited  to  eat,  went  out  to  walk  till  she  should 
appear.  Neither  did  Lord  Scoutbush  come.  Where  was 
he? 

Ignorant  of  the  whole  matter,  he  had  started  at  four 
o'clock  to  fish  in  the  Traeth  Mawr  ;  half  for  fishing's  sake, 
half  (as  he  confessed)  to  gain  time  for  his  puzzled  braina 
before  those  explanations  with  Frank  Ileadley,  of  which  he 
stood  in  mortal  fear. 

Mellot  and  Campbell  sat  down  together  to  breakfast ;  but 
in  silence.  Claude  saw  that  something  had  gone  very 
wrong  ;  Campbell  ate  nothing,  and  looked  nervously  out  of 
the  window  every  now  and  then. 

At  last  Bowie  entered  with  the  letters  and  a  message. 
There  were  two  gentlemen  from  Pen-y-gwryd  must  speak 
with  Mr.  Mellot  immediately. 

He  went  out,  and  found  Wynd  and  Naylor.  What  they 
told  him  we  know  already.  lie  returned  instantly,  and  met 
Campbell  leaving  the  room. 

"1  have  news  of  Vavasour,"  whispered  he.  "I  have  a 
letter  from  him.  Bowie,  order  me  a  car  instantly  for  Ban- 
gor. I  am  oil'  to  London,  Claude.  You  and  Bowie  will  take 
care  of  my  things,  and  send  then  after  me." 

"  Major  Cawmill  has  only  to  command,"  said  Bowie,  and 
vanished  down  the  stairs. 

"Now,  Claude,  quick;  read  that,  and  counsel  me,  I 
ought  to  ask  Scoutbush's  opinion  ;  but  the  poor  dear  fellow 
18  out,  you  see." 

Claude  read  the  note  written  at  Bangor. 

"  Fight  him  I  will  not !  I  detest  the  notion  ;  a  soldier 
should  never  fight  a  duel.  His  life  is  the  Queen's,  and  not 
his  own.     And  yet,  if  the  honor  of  the  family  has  been  com- 

(422) 


FOND,  YET  NOT   FOOLISH.  423 

promised  by  my  folly,  I  must  pay  the  penalty,  if  Scoutbush 
thinks  it  proper." 

So  said  Campbell,  who,  in  the  over-sensitiveness  of  his 
conscience,  had  actually  worked  himself  round  during  UK- 
past  night  into  this  new  fancy,  as  a  chivalrous  act  of  utter 
self-abasement.  The  proud  self-possession  of  the  man  was 
gone,  and  nothing  but  self-distrust  and  shame  remained. 

"  In  the  name  of  all  wit  and  wisdom,  what  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this?" 

"  You  do  not  know,  then,  what  passed  last  night  ?  " 

"  I  ?  I  can  only  guess  that  Vavasour  has  had  one  of  his 
rages." 

"Then  you  must  know,"  said  Campbell,  with  an  effort, 
"  for  you  must  explain  all  to  Scoutbush  when  he  returns  ; 
and  I  know  no  one  more  fit  for  the  office."  And  he  briefly 
told  him  the  story. 

Mellot  was  much  affected.  "  The  wretched  ape  !  Camp- 
bell, your  first  thought  was  the  true  one  ;  you  must  not  fight 
that  cur.  After  all,  it 's  a  fiirce  :  you  won't  fire  at  him,  and 
he  can't  hit  you — so  leave  ill  alone.  Beside,  for  Scout- 
bush's  sake,  her  sake,  every  one's  sake,  the  thing  must  be 
hushed  up.  If  the  fellow  chooses  to  duck  under  into  the  Lon- 
don mire,  let  him  lie  there,  and  forget  him  I  " 

"No,  Claude  ;  his  pardon  I  must  beg,  ere  I  go  out  to  the 
wa,v  ;  or  I  shall  die  with  a  sin  upon  my  soul." 

"  My  dear,  noble  old  fellow  !  if  you  must  go,  I  go  with 
you.  I  must  see  fair  play  between  you  and  that  madman  ; 
and  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind,  too,  while  I  am  about  it. 
He  is  in  my  power ;  or,  if  not  quite  that,  I  know  one  in 
whose  power  he  is  ;  and  to  reason  he  shall  be  brought." 

"  No  ;  you  must  stay  here.  I  cannot  trust  Scoutbush's 
head,  and  these  poor  dear  souls  will  have  no  one  to  look  to 
but  you.  I  can  trust  you  with  them,  I  know.  Me  you 
perhaps  will  never  see  again." 

"  You  can  trust  me  !  "  said  the  affectionate  little  painter, 
the  tears  starting  to  his  eyes,  as  he  wrung  Campbell's  hand. 

"  Mind  one  thing  !  If  that  Vavasour  shows  his  teeth, 
there  is  a  spell  will  turn  him  to  stone.     Use  it !  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  Let  him  show  his  teeth.  It  is  I  who 
am  in  the  wrong.  Why  should  I  make  him  more  my  enemy 
than  he  is  ?  " 

"  Be  it  so.  Only  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  call 
him  not  Elsley  Vavasour,  but  plain  John  Briggs  —  and  see 
what  follows." 

Valencia  entered 


424  FOND,   YET  NOT   FOOLISH. 

"  The  post  is  come  in  I  0,  dear  Major  Campbell,  io  there 
a  letter?" 

lie  put  the  note  into  her  hand  in  silence.  She  read  it, 
and  darted  back  to  Lucia's  room. 

"  Thank  God  that  slie  did  not  see  that  I  was  going !  One 
more  pang  on  earth  spared  !  "  said  Campbell  to  himself. 

Valencia  hurried  to  Lucia's  door.  She  was  holding  it 
ajar,  and  looking  out  with  pah;  face,  and  wild,  hungry  eyes. 
"  A  letter?  Don't  be  silent,  or  1  shall  go  mad  I  Tell  me 
the  worst !     Is  he  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  " 

She  gasped,  and  staggered  against  the  door-post. 

"  Where  !  Why  does  he  not  come  back  to  me  ?  "  asked 
she  in  a  confused,  abstracted  way. 

It  was  best  to  tell  the  truth,  and  have  it  over. 

"  He  is  gone  to  London,  Lucia.  He  will  think  over  it 
all  there,  and  be  sorry  for  it,  and  then  all  will  be  well 
again." 

But  Lucia  did  not  hear  the  end  of  that  sentence.  Mur- 
muring to  herself,  "  To  London  !  to  London  !  "  she  hurried 
back  into  the  room. 

"  Clara  !  Clara  !  have  the  children  had  their  breakfast  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am!"  says  Clara,  appearing  from  the  inner 
roonl. 

"  Then  help  me  to  pack  up  quick  !  Your  master  is  gone 
to  London  on  business  ;  and  we  are  to  follow  him  immedi- 
ately." 

And  she  began  bustling  about  the  room. 

"  j\[y  dearest  Lucia,  you  are  not  fit  to  travel  now  !  " 

"  I  shall  die  if  I  stay  here  ;  die  if  I  do  nothing  !  I  must 
find  him  !  "  whispered  she.  "  Don't  speak  loud,  or  Clara 
will  hear.  I  can  find  him,  and  nobody  can  but  me  !  Why 
don't  you  help  me  to  pack,  Valencia  ?  " 

"  My  dearest !  but  what  will  Scoutbush  say  when  he 
comes  home,  aiid  finds  you  gone  ?  " 

"  What  right  has  he  to  interfere  ?  I  am  Elsley's  wife, 
am  I  not?  and  may  follow  my  husband  if  I  like  ;  "  and  she 
went  on  desperately  collecting,  not  her  own  things,  but 
Elsley's. 

Valencia  watched  her  with  tear-brimming  eyes  ;  collecting 
all  his  papers,  counting  over  his  cIotli(>s,  murmuring  to  her- 
self that  he  would  want  this  and  that  in  London.  Her 
sanity  seemed  failing  her,  under  the  fixed  idea  that  she  had 
only  to  see  him,  and  set  all  right  with  a  word. 

"  I  will  go  and  get  you  some  breakfast,"  said  she  at  last. 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH.  425 

"I  want  none.  1  am  too  busy  to  eat.  Why  don't  you 
help  me  ? " 

Valencia  had  not  the  heart  to  help,  believing,  as  she  did, 
that  Lucia's  journey  would  be  as  bootless  as  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  her  health. 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  breakfast,  and  you  must  try  ; 
then  I  will  help  you  to  pack  ;  "  and  utterly  bewildered  she 
went  out ;  and  the  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind  was,  — 
"  0,  that  I  could  find  Frank  Headley  !  " 

Happy  was  it  for  Frank's  love,  paradoxical  as  it  may 
seem,  that  it  had  conquered  just  at  that  moment  of  terrible 
distress.  Valencia's  acceptance  of  him  had  been  hasty, 
founded  rather  on  sentiment  and  admiration  than  on  deep 
affection  ;  and  her  feeling  might  have  faltered,  waned,  died 
away  in  self-distrust  of  its  own  reality,  if  giddy  amuse- 
ment, even  if  mere  easy  happiness,  had  followed  it.  But 
now  the  fire  of  affliction  was  branding  in  the  thought  of  him 
upon  her  softened  heart. 

Living  at  the  utmost  strain  of  her  character,  Campbell 
gone,  her  brother  useless,  and  Lucia  and  the  children 
depending  utterly  on  her,  there  was  but  one  to  whom  she 
could  look  for  comfort  while  she  needed  it  most  utterly  ; 
and  happy  for  her  and  for  her  lover  that  she  could  go  to 
him. 

"  Poor  Lucia  !  Thank  God  that  I  have  some  one  who 
will  never  treat  me  so  !  who  will  lift  me  up  and  shield  me, 
instead  of  crushing  me  !  —  dear  creature! — 0  that  I  may 
find  him  !  "  And  her  heart  went  out  after  Frank  with  a 
gush  of  tenderness  which  she  had  never  felt  before. 

"  Is  this,  then,  love  ?  "  she  asked  herself;  and  she  found 
time  to  slip  into  her  own  room  for  a  moment  and  arrange 
her  dishevelled  hair,  ere  she  entered  the  breakfast-room. 

Frank  was  there,  luckily  alone,  pacing  nervously  up  and 
down.  He  hurried  up  to  her,  caught  both  her  hands  in  his, 
and  gazed  into  her  wan  and  haggard  face  with  the  intensest 
tenderness  and  anxiety. 

Valencia's  eyes  looked  into  the  depths  of  his,  passive  and 
confiding,  till  they  failed  before  the  keenness  of  his  gaze, 
and  swam  in  glittering  mist. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  she  ;  "  sorrow  is  a  light  price  to  pay 
for  the  feeling  of  being  so  loved  by  such  a  man  I  " 

"You  are  tired, — ill?  What  a  night  you  must  have 
had  ?     Mellot  has  told  me  all." 

'0,  my  poor  sister!"  and  wildly  she  poured  out  to 
36* 


426  FOND,   YET   NOT    FOOLISH. 

Frank  her  wrath  against  Elsley,  her  inability  to  coralori 
Lucia,  and  all  the  misery  and  confusion  of  the  past  night. 

"This  is  a  sad  dawning  for  the  day  of  my  triumph!" 
thought  Frank,  who  longed  to  pour  out  his  heart  to  her  on 
a  thousand  very  diiferent  matters  ;  but  he  was  content ;  it 
was  enough  for  him  that  she  could  tell  him  all,  and  confide 
in  him,  —  a  truer  sign  of  affection  than  any  selfish  love- 
making;  and  he  asked,  and  answered,  with  such  tender- 
ness and  thoughtfulness  for  poor  Lucia,  with  such  a  deep 
comprehension  of  Elsley's  character,  pitying  while  he 
blamed,  that  he  won  his  reward  at  last. 

"  0  !  it  would  be  intolerable,  if  I  had  not  through  it  all 
the  thought  —  "  and  blushing  crimson,  her  head  drooped 
on  her  bosom.     She  seemed  ready  to  drop  with  exhaustion. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,  or  you  will  fall  1  "  said  Frank, 
leading  her  to  a  chair  ;  and,  as  he  led  her,  he  whispered 
with  fluttering  heart,  new  to  its  own  happiness,  and  long- 
ing to  make  assurance  sure,  "  What  thought  ?  " 

She  was  silent  still  ;  but  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  in  his. 

"The  thought  of  me?" 

She  looked  up  in  his  face ;  how  beautiful !  And  in 
another  moment,  neither  knew  how,  she  was  clasped  to  his 
bosom. 

He  covered  her  face,  her  hair,  with  kisses  ;  she  did  not 
move  ;  from  that  moment  she  felt  that  he  was  her  husband. 

"  0,  guide  me  I  counsel  me  I  pray  for  me  !  "  sobbed  she. 
"  I  am  all  alone,  and  my  poor  sister,  she  is  going  mad,  I 
think,  and  I  have  no  one  to  trust  but  you  ;  and  you  — you 
will  leave  me  to  go  to  those  dreadful  wars  ;  and  then,  what 
will  become  of  me  ?  0,  stay  !  only  a  few  days  !  "  and  hold- 
ing him  convulsively,  she  answered  his  kisses  with  her 
own. 

Frank  stood  as  in  a  dream,  while  the  room  reeled  round 
and  vanished  ;  and  he  was  alone  for  a  moment  upon  earth 
with  her  and  his  great  love. 

"  Tell  mo,"  said  he,  at  last,  trying  to  awaken  himself  to 
action  ;  "  tell  me  I     Is  she  really  going  to  seek  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  selfish  and  forgetful  that  I  am  !  You  must  help 
me!  She  will  go  to  London  —  nothing  can  stop  her;  — 
and  it  will  kill  her !  " 

"  It  may  drive  her  mad  to  keep  her  hero." 

"It  will!  and  that  drives  me  mad  also.  What  can  I 
choose  ? " 

"  Follow  where  God  leads.     It  is  she,  after  all.  ^eho  must 


FOND,   YET   NOT   FOOLISH.  427 

reclaim  him.  Leave  her  iu  God's  hands,  and  go  with  her 
to  London." 

"  But  my  brother  ?  " 

"  Mellot  or  I  will  see  him.  Let  it  be  me.  Mellot  shall 
go  with  you  to  London." 

"  0  that  you  were  going  !  " 

"0  that  I  were!  I  will  follow,  though.  Do  you  think 
that  I  can  be  long  away  from  you  ?  .  .  .  .  But  I  must  tell 
your  brother.  J  had  a  veiy  different  matter  on  which  to 
speak  to  him  this  morning,"  said  he,  with  a  sad  smile  ; 
"  but  better  as  it  is.  He  shall  find  me,  I  hope,  reasonable 
and  trustworthy  in  this  matter ;  perhaps  enough  so  to  have 
my  Valencia  committed  to  me.  Precious  jewel !  I  must 
learn  to  be  a  man  now,  at  least ;  now  that  I  have  you  to 
care  for." 

"  And  yet  you  go  and  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Valencia !  Because  God  has  given  us  to  each  other, 
shall  our  thank-offering  be  to  shrink  cowardly  from  His 
work  ?  " 

He  spoke  more  sternly  than  he  intended,  to  awe  into  obe- 
dience rather  himself  than  her  ;  for  he  felt,  poor  fellow,  his 
courage  failing  fast,  while  he  held  that  treasure  in  his  arms. 

She  shuddered  in  silence. 

"  Forgive  me  I  "  he  cried  ;  "  I  was  too  harsh,  Valencia  ! " 

"  No  !  "  she  cried,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  glorious  smile. 
"  Scold  me  !  Be  harsh  to  me  !  It  is  so  delicious  now  to  be 
reproved  by  you  !  "  And  as  she  spoke  she  felt  as  if  she 
vp-ould  rather  endure  tortui'e  from  that  man's  hand  than  bliss 
from  any  other.  How  many  strange  words  of  Lucia's  that 
new  feeling  explained  to  her  ;  words  at  which  she  had  once 
grown  angry,  as  doting  weaknesses,  unjust  and  degrading 
to  self-respect.  Poor  Lucia  !  She  might  be  able  to  comfort 
her  now,  for  she  had  learnt  to  sympathize  with  her  by  expe- 
rience the  ver}^  opposite  to  hers.  Yet  there  must  have  been 
a  time  when  Lucia  clung  to  Elsley  as  she  to  Frank.  How 
horrible  to  have  her  eyes  opened  thus  !  To  be  torn  and 
flung  away  from  the  bosom  where  she  longed  to  rest !  It 
could  never  happen  to  her.  Of  course  her  Frank  was  true, 
though  all  the  world  were  false  ;  but  poor  Lucia  !  She  must 
go  to  her.     This  was  mere  selfishness  at  such  a  moment. 

"  You  will  find  Scoutbush  then  ?  " 

"  This  moment.  I  will  order  the  car  now,  if  you  will  only 
eat.     You  must !  " 

And  he  rang  the  bell,  and  then  made  her  sit  df>wn  and 
Bat,  almost  feeding  her  with  his  own  hand.     That,  too,  waa 


428  FOND,   YET   NOT   FOOLISH. 

a  new  experience  ;  and  one  so  strang-ely  pleasant,  that  when 
Bowie  entered,  and  stared  solemnly  at  the  pair,  she  only 
looked  up  smiling,  though  blushing  a  little. 

"  Get  a  car  instantly,"  said  slie. 

"For  Mrs.  Vavasour,  my  lady?  She  has  ordered  hers 
already." 

"  No  ;  for  Mr.  ITcadley.     He  is    going  to  find    my  lord 
Frank,  pour  me  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  Lucia." 

Bowie  vanished,  mystified.  "It's  no  concern  of  mine ; 
but  better  tak'  up  wi'  a  godly  meenister  than  a  godless 
pawet,"  said  the  worthy  warrior  to  himself  as  he  marched 
down  stairs. 

"  You  see  that  I  am  asserting  our  rights  already  before 
all  the  world,"  said  she  looking  up. 

"I  see  that  you  are  not  ashamed  of  me." 

"  Ashamed  of  you  ?  " 

"And  now  1  must  go  to  Lucia." 

"  And  to  London." 

Valencia  began  to  cry  like  any  baby ;  but  rose  and  car- 
ried away  the  tea  in  her  hand,  "Must  I  go  ?  and  before 
you  come  back,  too  ?  " 

"  Is  she  determined  to  start  instantly  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  stop  her.     You  see  she  has  ordered  the  car." 

"  Then  go,  my  darling  !  My  own  !  my  Valencia  !  0,  a 
thousand  things  to  ask  you,  and  no  time  to  ask  them  in  1 
I  can  write  ?  "  said  Frank,  with  an  inquiring  smile. 

"Write  ?  Yes  ;  every  day, — twice  a  day.  I  shall  live 
upon  those  letters.  Good-by  !  "  And  out  she  went,  while 
Frank  sat  himself  down  at  the  table,  and  laid  his  head  upon 
his  hands,  stupefied  with  delight,  till  Bowie  entered. 

"The  car,  sir." 

"Which?  Who?"  asked  Frank,  looking  up  as  from  a 
dream. 

"The  car,  sir." 

Frank  rose,  and  walked  down  stairs  abstractedly,  Bowie 
kept  close  to  his  side. 

"  Ye  '11  pardon  me,  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "but  I 
8ee  how  it  is,  —  the  more  blessing  for  you.  Ye '11  be 
pleased,  I  trust,  to  take  more  care  of  this  jewel  than  others 
have  of  that  one  ;  or  —  " 

"  Or  you  '11  shoot  me  yourself,  Bowie  ?  "  said  Frank,  half 
amused,  half  awed,  too,  by  the  stern  tone  of  the  guardsman. 
"  I  '11  give  you  leave  to  do  it  if  I  deserve  it." 

"  It 's   no   my  duty,  either  as  a  soldier  or  as  a  valet 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH.  429 

And,  indeed,  I  've  that  opeenion  of  you,  sir,  that  I  don't 
think  it  '11  need  to  be  any  one's  else's  duty  either." 

And  so  did  Mr.  Bowie  signify  his  approbation  of  the  new 
family  romance,  and  went  oft"  to  assist  Mrs.  Clara  in  getting 
the  trunks  down  stairs. 

Clara  was  in  high  dudgeon.  She  had  not  yet  completed 
her  flirtation  with  Mr.  Bowie,  and  felt  it  hard  to  have  her 
one  amusement  in  life  snatched  out  of  her  hard-worked 
hands. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  we 're  moving.  I  don't 
believe  it 's  business.  Some  of  his  tantrums,  I  dare  say. 
I  heard  her  walking  up  and  down  the  room  all  last  night, 
I  '11  swear.  Neither  she  nor  Miss  Valencia  have  been  to 
bed.     He  '11  kill  her  at  last,  the  brute  !  " 

"It's  no  concern  of  either  of  us,  that.  Have  ye  got 
another  trunk  to  bring  down  ?  " 

"  No  concern  ?  Just  like  your  hard-heartedness,  Mr. 
Bowie.  And,  as  soon  as  I  'm  gone,  of  course  j'ou  will  be 
flirting  with  these  impudent  Welshwomen,  in  their  horrid 
hats." 

"  May  be,  yes  ;  may  be,  no.  But  flirting  's  no  marrying, 
Mrs.  Clara." 

"True  for  you,  sir!  Men  were  deceivers  ever,"  quoth 
Clara,  and  flounced  up  stairs  ;  while  Bowie  looked  after  her 
with  a  grim  smile,  and  caught  her,  when  she  came  down 
again,  long  enough  to  give  her  a  great  kiss,  the  only 
language  which  he  used  in  wooing,  and  that  but  rarely. 

"  Dinna  fash,  lassie.  Mind  your  lady  and  the  poor  bairns, 
like  a  godly  handmaiden,  and  I  '11  buy  the  ring  when  the 
sawmon  fishing  's  over,  and  we  '11  just  be  married  ere  I 
start  for  the  Crimee." 

"  The  sawmon  !  "  cried  Clara.  "  I  '11  see  you  turned  into 
a  mermaid  first,  and  married  to  a  sawmon  !  " 

"  And  ye  won't  do  anything  o'  the  kind,"  said  Bowie  to 
himself,  and  shouldered  a  valise. 

In  ten  minutes  the  ladies  were  packed  into  the  carriage, 
and  away,  under  Mellot's  care.  Frank  watched  Valencia 
looking  back,  and  smiling  through  her  tears,  as  they  rolled 
through  the  village  ;  and  then  got  into  his  car,  and  rattlcil 
down  the  southern  road  to  Pont  Aberglaslyn,  his  hand  still 
tingling  with  the  last  pressure  of  Valencia's. 


CHAPTER    XXII]. 

THE  BROAD    STONE   OF   HONOR. 

But  where  has  Stangrave  been  all  this  while  ? 

Where  any  given  bachelor  has  been,  for  any  given  month, 
s  difficult  to  say,  and  no  man's  business  but  his  own.  But 
where  he  happened  to  be  on  a  certain  afternoon  in  the  first 
week  of  October,  on  which  he  had  just  heard  the  news  of 
Alma,  was  —  upon  the  hills  between  Ems  and  Coblentz. 
Walking  over  a  high  table-land  of  stubbles,  which  would  be 
grass  in  England  ;  and  yet,  with  all  its  tillage,  is,  perhaps, 
not  worth  more  than  English  grass  would  be,  thanks  to 
that  small-farm  system  much  be-praised  by  some  who  know 
not  wheat  from  turnips.  Then  along  a  road,  which  might 
be  a  Devon  one,  cut  in  the  hill-side,  through  authentic 
"  Devonian  "  slate,  where  tlie  deep  chocolate  soil  is  lodged 
on  the  top  of  the  upright  strata,  and  a  thick  coat  of  moss 
and  wood  sedge  clusters  about  the  oak-scrub  roots,  round 
which  the  delicate  and  rare  oak-fern  mingles  its  fronds  with 
great  blue  campanulas  ;  while  the  "  white  admirals  "  and 
silver-washed  "  fritillaries  "  flit  round  every  bramble-bed, 
and  the  great  "  purple  emperors  "  come  down  to  drink  in 
the  road  puddles,  and  sit  fearless,  flashing  off  their  velvet 
wings  a  blue  as  of  that  empyrean  which  is  "  dark  by  excess 
of  light." 

Down  again,  through  cultivated  lands,  corn  and  clover, 
flax  and  beet,  and  all  the  various  crops  with  which  the 
industrious  Gorman  yeoman  ekes  out  his  little  patch  of  soil. 
Past  the  thrifty  husbandman  himself,  as  he  guides  the  two 
milch-kine  in  his  tiny  plough,  and  stops  at  the  furrow's 
end,  to  greet  you  with  the  hearty  German  smile  and  bow  ; 
while  the  little  fair-haired  maiden,  walking  beneath  the 
shade  of  standard  cherries,  walnuts,  and  pears,  all  gray 
with  fruit,  fills  the  cows'  mouths  with  chiccory,  and  wild 
carnations,  and  pink  saintfoin,  and  many  a  fragrant  weed 
wrhich  richer  England  wastes. 

D'^wn  ojice  more,  into  a  glen  ;  but  such  a  glen  as  neither 

(430) 


THE   BROAD   STONE    OF   HONOR.  431 

England  nor  America  has  ever  seen,  or,  please  God,  ever 
will  see,  glorious  as  it  is.  Stangrave,  who  knew  all  Europe 
well,  had  walked  that  path  before  :  but  he  stopped  then,  as 
he  had  done  the  first  time,  in  awe.  On  the  right,  slope  up 
the  bare  slate  downs,  up  to  the  foot  of  cliffs  ;  but  only  half 
of  those  clilfs  God  has  made.  Above  the  gray  slate  ledges 
rise  cliffs  of  man's  handiwork,  pierced  with  a  hundred  square 
black  embrasures,  and  above  them  the  long  barrack-ranges 
of  a  soldiers'  town,  which  a  foeman  stormed  once,  when  it 
was  young  ;  but  what  foeman  will  ever  storm  it  again  ? 
What  conqueror's  foot  will  ever  tread  again  upon  the 
"  broad  stone  of  honor,"  and  call  Ehrenbreitstein  his  ? 

On  the  left,  the  clover  and  the  corn  range  on,  beneath 
the  orchard  boughs,  up  to  yon  knoll  of  chestnut  and  acacia, 
tall  poplar,  feathered  larch  ;  —  but  what  is  that  stonework 
which  gleams  gray  between  their  stems  ?  A  summer-house 
for  some  great  duke,  looking  out  over  the  glorious  Rhine 
vale,  and  up  the  long  vineyards  of  the  bright  Moselle,  from 
whence  he  may  bid  his  people  eat,  drink,  and  take  their 
ease,  for  they  have  much  goods  laid  up  for  many  years  ?  — 

Bank  over  bank  of  earth  and  stone,  cleft  by  deep  embras- 
ures, from  which  the  great  guns  grin  across  the  rich  gar- 
dens, studded  with  standard  fruit-trees,  which  clothe  the 
glacis  to  its  topmost  edge.  And  there,  below  him,  lie  the 
vineyards  ;  every  rock-ledge  and  narrow  path  of  soil  tossing 
its  golden  tendrils  to  the  sun,  gray  with  ripening  clusters, 
rich  with  noble  wine  ;  but  what  is  that  wall  which  winds 
among  them,  up  and  down,  creeping  and  sneaking  over 
every  ledge  and  knoll  of  vantage  ground,  pierced  with 
eyelet-holes,  backed  by  strange  stairs  and  galleries  of  stone, 
till  it  rises  close  before  him,  to  meet  the  low  round  tower 
full  in  his  path,  from  whose  deep  casemates,  as  from  dark 
scowling  eye-holes,  the  ugly  cannon-eyes  stare  up  the  glen  ? 

Stangrave  knows  them  all  —  as  far  as  any  man  can  know. 
The  wards  of  the  key  which  locks  apart  the  nations  ;  the 
yet  maiden  Troy  of  Europe  ;  the  greatest  fortress  of  the 
world. 

He  walks  down,  turns  into  the  vineyards,  and  lies  down 
beneath  the  mellow  shade  of  vines.  He  has  no  sketch-book 
—  article  forbidden  ;  his  passport  is  in  his  pocket;  and  he 
speaks  all  tongues  of  German  men.  So,  fearless  of  gen- 
darmes and  soldiers,  he  lies  down,  in  the  blazing  German 
afternoon,  upon  the  shaly  soil,  and  watches  the  bright- 
eyed  lizards  hunt  flies  along  the  roasting  walls,  and  the 
great  locusts  buzz  and  pitch  and  leap  ;  green  locusts  with 


432  THE   BROAD    STONE    OF   HONORc 

red  wings,  and  gray  locusts- with  blue  wings  ;  he  notes  the 
species,  for  he  is  tired  and  lazy,  and  has  so  many  thoughts 
within  his  head,  that  he  is  glad  to  toss  them  all  awaj',  and 
give  up  his  soul,  if  possible,  to  locusts  and  lizards,  vines 
and  shade. 

And  far  below  him  fleets  the  mighty  Rhine,  rich  with  the 
memories  of  two  thousand  stormy  years  ;  and  on  its  further 
bank  the  gray-walled  Coblentz  town,  and  the  long  arches 
of  the  Moselle-bridge,  and  the  rich  flats  of  Kaiser  Franz, 
and  the  long,  poplar-crested  uplands,  whicli  look  so  gay, 
and  are  so  stern  ;  for  everywhere  between  the  poplar  stems 
the  saw-toothed  outline  of  the  western  forts  cuts  the  blue 
sky. 

And  far  beyond  it  all  sleeps,  high  in  air,  the  Eifel  with 
its  hundred  crater  peaks  ;  blue  mound  behind  blue  mound, 
melting  into  white  haze.  Stangrave  has  walked  upon  those 
hills,  and  stood  upon  the  crater-lip  of  the  great  Moselkopf, 
and  dreamed  beside  the  Laacher  See,  beneath  the  ancient 
abbey  walls  ;  and  his  thoughts  flit  across  the  Moselle  flats 
toward  his  ancient  haunts,  as  he  asks  himself.  How  long  has 
that  old  Eifel  lain  in  such  soft  sleep  ?  How  long  ere  it 
awake  again  ? 

It  may  awake,  geologists  confess,  —  why  not  ?  —  and 
blacken  all  the  skies  with  smoke  of  Tophet,  pouring  its 
streams  of  boiling  mud  once  more  to  dam  the  Rhine,  whelm- 
ing the  works  of  men  in  flood,  and  ash,  and  fire.  Why  not? 
The  old  earth  seems  so  solid  at  first  sight ;  but  look  a  little 
nearer,  and  this  is  the  stufi"  of  which  she  is  made  !  The 
wreck  of  past  earthquakes,  the  leavings  of  old  floods,  the 
washings  of  cold  cinder  heaps  —  which  are  smouldering  stil) 
oelow. 

Stangrave  knew  that  well  enough.  He  had  climbed  Vesu- 
vius, Etna,  Popocatepetl.  He  had  felt  many  an  earthquake 
shock  ;  and  knew  how  far  to  trust  the  everlasting  hills.  And 
was  old  David  right,  he  thought  that  day,  when  he  held  the 
earthquake  and  the  volcano  as  the  truest  symbols  of  the  his- 
tory of  human  kind,  and  of  the  dealings  of  their  Maker  with 
them  ?  All  the  magnificent  Plutonic  imagery  of  the  Hebrew 
poets,  had  it  no  nieaning  for  men  now  ?  Did  the  Lord  still 
uncover  the  foundations  of  the  world,  spiritual  as  well  as 
physical,  with  the  breath  of  his  displeasure  ?  Was  the  sol- 
fatara  of  Tophet  still  ordained  for  tyrants  ?  And  did  the 
•jord  still  arise  out  of  his  place  to  shake  terribly  the  earth  ? 
Or,  had  the  moral  world  grown  as  sleepy  as  the  physical 
.)ne  had  seemed  to  have  done  ?     Would  anything  awful, 


THE   BROAD   STONE   OF   HONOR.  433 

unexpected,  tragical,  ever  burst  forth  again  from  the  heart 
of  earth,  or  from  the  heart  of  man  ? 

Surprising  question  !  What  can  ever  happen  henceforth, 
save  infinite  railroads  and  crystal  palaces,  peace  and  plenty, 
Cockaigne  and  dillettantism,  to  the  end  of  time  ?  I^  it  not 
full  sixty  whole  years  since  the  first  French  revolution,  and 
six  whole  years  since  the  revolution  of  all  Europe  ?  Bah  ! 
—  change  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  tragedy  a  myth  of  our 
forefathers  ;  war  a  bad  habit  of  old  barbarians,  eradicated 
by  the  spread  of  an  enlightened  philanthropy.  Men  know 
now  how  to  govern  the  world  far  too  well  to  need  any  divine 
visitations,  much  less  divine  punishments  ;  and  Stangrave 
was  an  Utopian  dreamer,  only  to  be  excused  by  the  fact  that 
he  had  in  his  pocket  the  news  that  three  great  nations  were 
gone  forth  to  tear  each  other  as  of  yore. 

Nevertheless,  looking  round  upon  those  grim  earth-mounds 
and  embrasures,  he  could  not  but  give  the  men  who  put  them 
there  credit  for  supposing  that  they  might  be  wanted.  Ah  ! 
but  that  might  be  only  one  of  the  direful  necessities  of  the 
decaying  civilization  of  the  old  world.  What  a  contrast  to 
the  unarmed  and  peaceful  prosperity  of  his  own  country  1 
Thank  Heaven,  New  England  needed  no  fortresses,  military 
roads,  or  standing  armies  !  True  ;  but  why  that  flush  of 
contemptuous  pity  for  the  poor  old  world,  which  could  only 
hold  its  own  by  such  expensive  and  ugly  methods  ? 

He  asked  himself  that  very  question,  a  moment  after,  an- 
grily ;  for  he  was  out  of  humor  with  himself,  with  his  coun- 
try, and  indeed  with  the  universe  in  general.  And  across 
his  mind  flashed  a  memorable  conversation  at  Constantinople 
long  since,  during  which  he  had  made  some  such  unwise  re- 
mark to  Thurnall,  and  received  from  him  a  sharp  answer, 
which  parted  them  for  years. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  that  conversation  should  come 
back  to  him  just  then  ;  for,  in  his  jealousy,  he  was  thinking 
of  Tom  Thurnall  often  enough  every  day ;  and  in  spite  of 
his  enmity,  he  could  not  help  suspecting  more  and  more  that 
Thurnall  had  had  some  right  on  his  side  in  the  quarrel. 

He  had  been  twitting  Thurnall  with  the  miserable  condi- 
tion of  the  laborers  in  the  south  of  England,  and  extolling 
his  own  country  at  the  expense  of  ours.  Tom,  unable  to 
deny  the  fact,  had  waxed  all  the  more  wroth  at  having  it 
pressed  on  him  ;  and  at  last  had  burst  forth,  — 

"  Well,  and  what  right  have  you  to  crow  over  us  on  that 
score  ?     1  suppose,  if  you  could  hire  a  man  in  America  foi 
eighteen-pence  a  day,  instead  of  a  dollar  and  a  half,  you 
37 


434  THE   BROAD    STONE   OF   HONOR. 

would  do  it  ?  You  Americans  are  not  accustomed  to 
give  more  for  a  tiling  than  it 's  worth  in  the  market,  are 
you  ?  " 

"  But,"  Stangrave  had  answered,  "the  glory  of  America 
is,  that  you  cannot  get  the  man  for  less  than  the  dollar  and 
a  half ;  that  he  is  too  well  fed,  too  prosperous,  too  well  edu- 
cated, to  be  made  a  slave  of." 

"  And  therefore  makes  slaves  of  the  niggers  instead  ?  I  'II 
tell  you  what,  I  am  sick  of  that  shallow  fallacy  —  the  glory 
of  America  !  Do  you  mean  by  America,  the  country,  or  the 
people  ?  You  boast,  all  of  you,  of  your  country,  as  if  you 
liad  made  it  yourselves  ;  and  quite  forget  that  God  made 
America,  and  America  has  made  you." 

"  Made  us,  sir  ?  "  quoth  Stangrave,  fiercely  enough. 

"  Made  you  !  "  replied  Thurnall,  exaggerating  his  half 
truth  from  anger.  "To  what  is  your  comfort,  your  high 
feeding,  your  very  education,  owing,  but  to  your  having  a 
thin  population,  a  virgin  soil,  and  unlimited  means  of  emi- 
gration ?  What  credit  to  you  if  you  need  no  poor  laws, 
when  you  pack  off  your  children,  as  fast  as  they  grow  up, 
to  clear  more  ground  westward  ?  What  credit  to  your  yeo- 
men that  they  have  read  more  books  than  our  clods  have, 
while  they  can  earn  more  in  four  hours  than  our  poor  fellows 
in  twelve  ?  It  all  depends  on  the  mere  physical  I'act  of  your 
being  in  a  new  country,  and  we  in  an  old  one  ;  and  as  for 
moral  superiority,  I  shan't  believe  in  that  while  I  see  the 
whole  of  the  northern  states  so  utterly  given  up  to  the 
'  almighty  dollar,'  that  they  leave  the  honor  of  their  country 
to  be  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  by  a  few  southern  slave- 
holders. Moral  superiority?  We  hold  in  England  that  an 
honest  man  is  a  match  for  three  rogues.  If  the  same  law 
holds  good  in  the  United  States,  I  leave  you  to  settle  whether 
Northerners  or  Southerners  are  the  honester  men." 

Whereupon  (and  no  shame  to  Stangrave)  there  was  a 
heavy  quarrel,  and  the  two  men  had  not  met  since. 

But  now,  those  words  of  Thurnall's,  backed  by  far  bitterer 
ones  of  Marie's,  were  fretting  Stangrave's  heart.  What  if 
they  were  true  ?  They  were  not  the  whole  truth.  TluM'e 
was  beside,  and  above  them  all,  a  nobleness  in  the  Ameri- 
can heart,  which  could,  if  it  chose,  and  when  it  chose,  give 
the  lie  to  that  bitter  taunt ;  but  had  it  done  so  already  ? 

At  least,  he  himself  had  not.  ...  If  Thurnall  and  Marie 
were  unjust  to  his  nation,  they  had  not  been  unjust  to  him. 
He,  at  least,  had  been  making,  all  his  life,  mere  outward 
blessings  causes  of  self-gratulation,  and  not  of  humility,, 


THE   BROAD    STONE    OF   HONOR.  435 

He  had  been  priding  himself  on  wealth,  ease,  luxury,  culti- 
vation, without  a  thought  that  these  were  God's  gifts,  and 
that  God  would  require  an  account  of  them.  If  Thurnall 
were  right,  was  he  himself  too  truly  the  typical  American  ? 
And  bitterly  enough  he  accused  at  once  himself  and  hig 
people. 

"  Noble  ?  Marie  is  right !  We  boast  of  our  nobleness  ; 
better  to  take  the  only  opportunity  of  showing  it  which  we 
have  had  since  we  have  become  a  nation  !  Heaped  with 
every  blessing  which  God  could  give  ;  beyond  the  reach  of 
sorrow,  a  check,  even  an  interference  ;  shut  out  from  all  the 
world  in  God's  new  Eden,  that  we  might  freely  eat  of  all 
the  trees  of  the  garden,  and  grow  and  spread,  and  enjoy 
ourselves  like  the  birds  of  heaven  —  God  only  laid  on  us 
one  duty,  one  command,  to  right  one  simple,  confessed, 
conscious  wrong.   .  .  . 

"And  what  have  we  done  ?  —  what  have  even  I  done  't 
We  have  steadily,  deliberately  cringed  at  the  feet  of  the 
wrong-doer,  even  while  we  boasted  our  superiority  to  him 
at  every  point,  and  at  last,  for  the  sake  of  our  own  selfish 
ease,  helped  him  to  forge  new  chains  for  his  victims,  and 
received  as  our  only  reward  fresh  insults.  White  slaves  ? 
We,  perhaps,  and  not  the  English  peasant,  are  the  white 
slaves  !  At  least,  if  the  Irishman  emigrates  to  England,  or 
the  Englishman  to  Canada,  he  is  not  hunted  out  with  blood- 
hounds, and  delivered  back  to  bis  landlord  to  be  scourged 
and  chained.  He  is  not  practically  out  of  the  pale  of  law, 
unrepresented,  forbidden  ever  the  use  of  books  ;  and,  even 
if  he  were,  there  is  an  excuse  for  the  old  country  ;  for  she 
was  founded  on  no  political  principles,  but  discovered  what 
she  knows  step  by  step  —  a  sort  of  political  Topsy,  as  Claude 
Mellot  calls  her,  who  has  '  kinder  growed,'  doing  from  hand 
to  mouth  what  seemed  best.  But  that  we,  who  professed 
to  start  as  an  ideal  nation,  on  fixed  ideas  of  justice,  free- 
dom, and  equality, —  that  we  should  have  been  stultifying 
ever  since  every  great  principle  of  which  we  so  loudly 
boast ! " 

"The  old  Jew  used  to  say  of  his  nation,  'It  is  God  that 
hath  made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves.'     We  say,  '  It  is  we 

that  have  made  ourselves,  while  God ?  '     Ah,  yes  ;  I 

recollect.  God's  work  is  to  save  a  soul  here  and  a  soul 
there,  and  to  leave  America  to  be  saved  by  the  Americans 
who  made  it.  We  must  have  a  broader  and  deeper  creed 
than  that  if  we  are  to  work  out  our  destiny      The  battlfl 


^36  THE   BROAD   STONE   OP    HONOR 

ajyainst  Middle  Age  slavery  was  Ibught  by  the  old  Catholic 
Church,  which  held  the  Jewish  notion,  and  looked  on  tho 
Deity  as  the  actual  King  of  Christendom,  and  every  man  in 
it  as  God's  own  child.  I  see  now  !  No  wonder  that  tho 
battle  in  America  has  as  yet  been  fought  by  the  Quakers, 
vvlio  believe  that  there  is  a  divine  light  and  voice  in  every 
man  ;^  while  the  Calvinist  preachers,  with  their  isolating  and 
individualizing  creed,  have  looked  on  with  folded  hands, 
content  to  save  a  negro's  soul  here  and  there,  whatsoever 
might  become  of  the  bodies  and  the  national  future  of  the 
whole  negro  race.  No  wonder,  while  such  men  liave  the 
teaching  of  the  people,  that  it  is  necessary  still  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  in  a  Protestant  country,  amid  sane  human 
beings,  for  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Sumner  to  rebut,  in  sober 
earnest,  the  argument  that  the  negro  was  the  descendant  of 
Canaan,  doomed  to  eternal  slavery  by  Noah's  curse  !  " 
***** 

He  would  rouse  himself  lie  would  act,  speak,  write,  as 
many  a  noble  fellow-countryman  was  doing.  He  had  avoided 
them  of  old  as  bores  and  fanatics  who  would  needs  wake  him 
from  his  luxurious  dreams.  He  had  even  hated  them,  simply 
because  they  were  more  righteous  than  he.  He  would  be  ^ 
new  man  henceforth. 

He  strode  down  the  hill  through  the  cannon-guarded 
vineyards,  among  the  busy  groups  of  peasants. 

"  Yes,  Marie  was  right.  Life  is  meant  for  work,  and  not 
for  ease  ;  to  labor  in  danger  and  in  dread  ;  to  do  a  little 
good  ere  the  night  comes  when  no  man  can  work  ;  instead 
of  trjang  to  realize  for  one's  self  a  Paradise  ;  not  even  Bun- 
yan's  shepherd-paradise,  much  less  Fourier's  Casino-para- 
dise ;  and,  perhaps,  least  of  all,  because  most  selfish  and 
isolated  of  all,  my  own  art-paradise  —  the  apotheosis  of 
loafing,  as  Claude  calls  it.  Ah,  Tennyson's  Palace  of  Art 
is  a  true  word  —  too  true,  too  true  1 

"  Art  ?  What  if  the  most  necessary  human  art,  next  to 
the  art  of  agriculture,  be,  after  all,  the  art  of  war?  It  has 
been  so  in  all  ages.  What  if  I  have  been  befooled  —  what 
if  all  the  Anglo-Saxon  world  has  boon  befooled,  by  forty 
years  of  peace  ?  We  have  forgotten  that  the  history  of  the 
world  has  been  as  yet  written  in  blood  ;  that  the  story  of 
the  human  race  is  the  story  of  its  heroes  and  its  martyrs  — 
the  slayers  and  the  slain.  Is  it  not  becoming  such  once 
more  in  Europe  now  ?  And  what  divine  exemption  can  we 
claim  from  the  law  ?  What  right  have  we  to  suppose  that 
it  will  be  aught  else,  as  long  as  there  are  wrongs  unre- 


THE   BROAD   STONE    OP   HONOR.  437 

dressed  on  earth  ;  as  long  as  anger  and  ambition,  cupidity 
and  wounded  pride,  canker  the  hearts  of  men  ?  What  if 
the  wise  man's  attitude,  and  the  wise  nation's  attitude,  is 
that  of  the  Jews  rebuilding  their  ruined  walls,  —  the  tool  in 
one  hand,  and  the  sword  in  the  other ;  for  the  wild  Arabs 
are  close  outside,  and  the  time  is  short,  and  the  storm  has 
only  lulled  a  while  in  mercy,  that  wise  men  may  prepare  for 
the  next  thunder-burst  'i  It  is  an  ugly  fact ;  but  I  have 
thrust  it  away  too  long,  and  I  must  accept  it  now  and 
henceforth.  This,  and  not  luxurious  Broadway  ;  this,  and 
not  the  comfortable  New  England  village,  is  the  normal 
type  of  human  life  ;  and  this  is  the  model  city!  Armed 
industry,  which  tills  the  corn  and  vine  among  the  cannons' 
mouths ;  which  never  forgets  their  need,  though  it  may 
mask  and  beautify  their  terror ;  but  knows  that  as  long  as 
cruelty  and  wrong  exist  on  earth,  man's  destiny  is  to  dare 
and  suffer,  and,  if  it  must  be  so,  to  die.     *      *      *      * 

"  Yes,  I  will  face  my  work  ;  my  danger,  if  need  be.  I 
will  find  Marie.  1  will  tell  her  that  I  accept  her  quest ;  not 
for  her  sake,  but  for  its  own.  Only  I  will  demand  the  right 
to  work  at  it  as  I  think  best,  patiently,  moderately,  wisely 
if  I  can  ;  for  a  fanatic  I  cannot  be,  even  for  her  sake.  She 
may  hate  these  slaveholders, —  she  may  have  her  reasons, — 
but  1  cannot.  I  cannot  deal  with  them  as /eras  naturce.  I 
cannot  deny  that  they  are  no  worse  men  than  I  ;  that  I 
should  have  done  what  they  are  doing,  have  said  what  they 
are  saying,  had  I  been  bred  up,  as  they  have  been,  with 
irresponsible  power  over  the  souls  and  bodies  of  human 
beings.  God  1  I  shudder  at  the  fancy  !  The  brute  that  I 
might  have  been  —  that  I  should  have  been  ! 

"  Yes  ;  one  thing  at  least  I  have  learnt,  in  all  my  experi- 
ments on  poor  humanity,  —  never  to  see  a  man  do  a  wrong 
thing,  without  feeling  that  I  could  do  the  same  in  his  place. 
I  used  to  pride  myself  on  that  once,  fool  that  I  was,  and 
call  it  comprehensiveness.  I  used  to  make  it  an  excuse 
for  sitting  by,  and  seeing  the  devil  have  it  all  his  own  way, 
and  call  that  toleration.  I  will  see  now  whether  I  cannot 
turn  the  said  knowledge  to  a  better  account,  as  common 
sense,  patience,  and  charity  ;  and  yet  do  work  of  which 
neither  I  nor  my  country  need  be  ashamed." 

He  walked  down,  and  on  to  the  bridge  of  boats.  They 
opened  in  the  centre  ;  as  he  reached  it  a  steamer  was  pass- 
ing. He  lounged  on  the  rail  as  the  boat  passed  through, 
boking  carelessly  at  the  groups  of  tourists. 

Two  ladies  were  standing  on  the  steamer,  close  to  him, 
87* 


438  THE   BROAD   STONE   OF   HONOR. 

looking   up   at   Ehrenbreitstein       Was   it?  —  yes,    it  waa 
Babina,  and  Marie  by  her  I 

But,  all,  how  chang-cd  !  The  cheeks  were  pale  and  hollow  ; 
dark  rings  —  he  could  see  them  but  too  plainly  as  the  face 
was  lifted  up  toward  the  light  —  were  round  those  great 
eyes,  bright  no  longer.  Her  face  was  listless,  careworn  ; 
looking  all  the  more  sad  and  impassive  by  the  side  of  Sabi- 
na's,  as  she  pointed,  smiling  and  sparkling  up  to  the 
forti'ess,  and  seemed  trying  to  interest  Marie  in  it,  but  in 
vain. 

lie  called  out.  lie  waved  his  hand  wildly,  to  the  arause* 
ment  of  the  officers  and  peasants  who  waited  by  his  side ; 
and  who,  looking  first  at  his  excited  face,  and  then  at  the 
two  beautiful  women,  were  not  long  in  making  up  their 
minds  about  him  ;  and  had  their  private  jests  accordingly. 

They  did  not  see  him,  but  turned  away  to  look  at  Cob* 
lentz  ;  and  the  steamer  swept  by. 

Stangrave  stamped  with  rage  —  upon  a  Prussian  officer's 
thin  boot. 

"  Ten  thousand  pardons !  " 

"  You  are  excused,  dear  sir,  you  are  excused,"  says  the 
good-natured  German,  with  a  wicked  smile,  which  raises  a 
blush  on  Stangrave's  cheek.  "  Your  eyes  were  dazzled  ; 
why  not  ?  It  is  not  often  that  one  sees  two  such  suns  together 
in  the  same  sky.  But  calm  yourself;  the  boat  stops  at 
Coblentz." 

Stangrave  could  not  well  call  the  man  of  war  to  account 
for  his  impertinence  ;  he  had  had  his  toes  half  crushed,  and 
had  a  right  to  indemnify  himself  as  he  thought  fit.  And, 
with  a  hundred  more  apologies,  Stangrave  prepared  to  dart 
across  the  bridge  as  soon  as  it  was  closed. 

Alas !  after  the  steamer,  as  the  fates  would  have  it,  came 
lumbering  down  one  of  those  monster  timber-rafts  ;  and  it 
was  a  full  half  hour  before  Stangrave  could  get  across, 
having  suffered  all  the  while  the  torments  of  Tantalus,  aa 
he  watched  the  boat  sweep  round  to  the  pier,  and  discharge 
its  freight,  to  be  scattered  whither  he  knew  not.  At  last 
he  got  across,  and  went  in  chase  to  the  nearest  hotel ;  but 
they  were  not  there  ;  thence  to  the  next,  and  the  next,  till 
he  had  hunted  half  the  hotels  in  the  town  ;  but  hunted  all 
in  vain. 

He  is  rushing  wildly  back  again,  to  try  if  he  can  obtain 
any  clue  at  the  steamboat  pier,  through  the  narrow,  dirty 
street  at  the  back  of  the  Rhino  Cavalier,  when  he  is  stopped 
short  by  a  mighty  German  embrace,  and  a  German  kiss  on 


THE   BEOAD   STONE   OF   HONOR.  439 

either  cheek,  as  the  kiss  of  a  housemaid's  broom ;  wKile  a 
jolly  voice  shouts  in  English  :  — 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  dear  friend  I  and  you  would  pass  me  ! 
Whither  the  hangman  so  fast  are  you  running  in  the 
mud?" 

"  My  dear  Salomon  I  But  let  me  go,  I  beseech  ;  I  am  in 
search  —  " 

"In  search?"  cries  the  jolly  Jew  banker,  —  "for  the 
philosopher's  stone  ?  You  had  all  that  man  could  want  a 
week  since,  except  that.  Search  no  more,  but  come  homo 
with  me  ;  and  we  will  have  a  night  as  of  the  gods  on 
Olympus ! " 

"  My  dearest  fellow,  I  am  looking  for  two  ladies  I  " 

"  Two  ?  ah,  rogue  I  shall  not  one  suflBce  ?  " 

"  Don't,  my  dearest  fellow  1  I  am  looking  for  two  Eng- 
lish ladies." 

"  Potz  !  You  shall  find  two  hundred  in  the  hotels,  ugly 
and  fair ;  but  the  two  fairest  are  gone  this  two  hours." 

"  When  ?  —  which  ?  "  cries  Stangrave,  suspecting  at 
once. 

"  Sabina  Mellot,  and  a  Sultana  —  I  thought  her  of  The 
Nation,  and  would  have  offered  my  hand  on  the  spot ;  but 
Madame  Mellot  says  she  is  a  Gentile." 

"  Gone  ?     And  you  have  seen  them !     Where  ?  " 

"  To  Bertrich.  They  had  luncheon  with  my  mother,  and 
then  started  by  private  post." 

"  I  must  follow." 

"  Ach  lieber  ?     But  it  will  be  dark  in  an  hour ! " 

"  What  matter  ?  " 

"But  you  shall  find  them  to-morrow  just  as  well  as  to- 
day. They  stay  at  Bertrich  for  a  fortnight  more.  They 
have  been  there  now  a  month,  and  only  left  it  last  week  for 
a  pleasure  tour,  across  to  the  Ahrthal,  and  so  back  by 
Andernach." 

"  Why  did  they  leave  Coblentz,  then,  in  such  hot 
haste  ?  " 

"  Ah,  the  ladies  never  give  reasons.  There  were  letters 
waiting  for  them  at  our  house  ;  and  no  sooner  read,  but 
they  leaped  up,  and  would  forth.  Come  home  now,  and  go 
by  the  steamer  to-morrow  morning !  " 

"  Impossible  !  most  hospitable  of  Israelites." 

"To  go  to-night,  —  for  see  the  clouds  !  Not  a  postilion 
will  dare  to  leave  Coblentz,  under  that  quick-coming  allge- 
mein  und  ungeheuer  henker-hund-undleufeVs-gewiiter  " 


440  THE   BROAD   STONE   OF   HONOR. 

Staiigrave  looked  up,  growling  ;  and  gave  in.  A  Rbiuc- 
storm  was  rolling  up  rapidly. 

"  They  will  be  caught  in  it." 

"  No.  The}'^  are  far  beyond  its  path  by  now,  while  you 
shall  endure  the  whole  visitation  ;  and,  if  you  try  to  proceed, 
pass  the  night  in  a  flea-pestered  post-house,  or  in  a  ditch  of 
water." 

So  Stangrave  went  home  with  Herr  Salomon,  and  heard 
from  him,  amid  clouds  of  Latakia,  of  wars  and  rumors  of 
wars,  distress  of  nations,  and  perplexity,  seen  by  the  light, 
not  of  the  Gospel,  but  of  the  stock-exchange  ;  while  the  storm 
fell  without  in  lightning,  hail,  rain,  of  right  Rhenish  potency. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


THE    THIRTIETH    OF   SEPTEMBER. 

We  must  go  back  a  week  or  so,  to  England,  and  to  the 
last  day  of  September.  The  world  is  shooting  partridges, 
and  asking  nervously,  when  it  comes  home,  what  news  from 
the  Crimea  ?  The  flesh  who  serves  it  is  bathing  at  Margate. 
The  devil  is  keeping  up  his  usual  correspondence  with 
both.  Eaton  Square  is  a  desolate  wilderness,  where  dusty 
sparrows  alone  disturb  the  dreams  of  frowzy  charwomen, 
who,  like  anchorites  amid  the  tombs  of  the  Thebaid,  fulfil 
the  contemplative  life  each  in  her  subterranean  cell.  Be- 
neath St.  Peter's  spire  the  cabman  sleeps  within  his  cab, 
the  horse  without ;  the  waterman,  seated  on  his  empty 
bucket,  contemplates  the  untrodden  pavement  beneath  his 
feet,  and  is  at  rest.  The  blue  butcher's  boy  trots  by,  with 
empty  cart,  five  miles  an  hour,  instead  of  full  fifteen,  and 
stops  to  chat  with  the  red  postman,  who,  his  occupation 
gone,  smokes  with  the  green  gatekeeper,  and  reviles  the 
Czar.  Along  the  whole  north  pavement  of  the  square  only 
one  figure  moves,  and  that  is  Major  Campbell. 

His  face  is  haggard  and  anxious  ;  he  walks  with  a  quick, 
excited  step  ;  earnest  enough,  whoever  else  is  not.  For  in 
front  of  Lord  Scoutbush's  house  the  road  is  laid  with  straw. 
There  is  sickness  there,  —  anxiety,  bitter  tears.  Lucia  has 
not  found  her  husband,  but  she  has  lost  her  child. 

Trembling,  Campbell  raises  the  muffled  knocker,  and  Bowie 
appears.     "  What  news  to-day  ?  "  he  whispers. 

"  As  well  as  can  be  expected,  sir,  and  as  quiet  as  a  lamb 
now,  they  say.  But  it  has  been  a  bad  time,  and  a  bad  man 
is  he  that  caused  it." 

"  A  bad  time,  and  a  bad  man.     How  is  Miss  St.  Just  ?  " 

'•  Just  gone  to  lie  down,  sir.  Miss  Clara  is  on  the  stairs, 
if  you  'd  like  to  see  her." 

"  No  ;  tell  Miss  St;  Just  that  I  have  no  news  yet."  And 
the  colonel  turns  wearily  away. 

Clara,  who  has  seen  him  from  above,  hun'ies  down  after 

(441) 


442  THE   THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER. 

him  into  the  street,  and  coaxes  him  to  come  in.  "  1  am  siir< 
you  have  had  no  breakfast,  sir  ;  and  you  look  so  ill  and 
worn.  And  Miss  St.  Just  will  be  so  vexed  not  to  see  you. 
She  will  get  up  the  moment  she  hears  you  are  here." 

•'  No,  my  good  Miss  Clara,"  saj'-s  Campbell,  looking 
down  with  a  weary  smile.  "  I  should  only  make  gloom 
more  gloom3^  Bowie,  tell  his  lordship  tliat  1  shall  be  at  the 
afternoon  train  to-morrow,  let  what  will  happen." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir.  We  're  a'  ready  to  march.  The  major 
looks  very  ill.  Miss  Clara.  I  wish  he  'd  have  taken  your 
counsel.  And  I  wish  ye  'd  take  mine,  and  marry  me  ere  I 
march,  just  to  try  what  it 's  like." 

"  I  must  mind  my  mistress,  Mr.  Bowie,"  says  Clara. 

"  And  how  should  I  interfere  with  that,  as  I  've  said 
twenty  times,  when  I  'm  safe  in  the  Crimee  ?  I  '11  get  the 
license  this  day,  say  what  ye  will ;  and  then  ye  would  not 
have  the  heart  to  let  me  spend  two  pounds  twelve  and  six- 
pence for  nothing  ?  " 

Whether  the  last  most  Caledonian  argument  conquered  or 
not,  Mr.  Bowie  got  the  license,  was  married  before  break- 
fast the  next  morning,  and  started  for  the  Crimea  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  ;  most  astonished,  as  he  confided  in 
the  train  to  Sergeant  Mac  Arthur,  "  to  see  a  lassie  that  never 
gave  him  a  kind  word  in  her  life,  and  had  not  been  married 
but  barely  six  hours,  greet  and  greet  at  his  going,  till  she 
vanished  away  into  hystericals.  They  're  a  very  unfathom- 
able species,  sergeant,  are  they  women  ;  and  if  they  were 
taken  out  o'  man,  they  took  the  best  part  of  Adam  wi' them, 
and  left  us  to  shift  with  the  worse." 

But  to  return  to  Campbell.  The  last  week  has  altered 
him  frightfully.  He  is  no  longer  the  stern,  self-possessed 
warrior  which  he  was  :  he  no  longer  even  walks  upright  ; 
his  cheek  is  pale,  his  eye  dull  ;  his  whole  countenance 
sunken  together.  And  now  that  the  excitement  of  anxiety 
is  past,  he  draws  his  feet  along  the  pavement  slowly,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  as 
if  the  life  was  gone  from  out  of  him,  and  existence  was  a 
weight. 

"  She  is  safe,  at  least,  then  !  One  burden  off  my  mind. 
And  yet,  had  it  not  been  better  if  that  pure  spirit  had 
returned  to  Ilim  who  gave  it,  instead  of  waking  again  to 
fresh  misery  ?  I  must  find  that  man  !  Whj',  I  have  been 
saying  so  to  myself  for  seven  days  past,  and  yet  no  ray  of 
light.  Can  the  coward  have  given  me  a  wrong  address  ? 
Yet  why  give  me  an  address  at  all,  if  he  meant  to  hidefroDQ 


THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBEE.  443 

Die  ?  Why,  1  have  been  saying  that  to  myself  every  day 
for  the  last  week  !  Over  and  over  again  the  same  dreary 
round  of  possibilities  and  suspicions.  However,  I  must  be 
quiet  now,  if  I  am  a  man.  1  can  hear  nothing  before  the 
detective  comes  at  two.  How  to  pass  the  weary,  weary 
time  ?  For  I  am  past  thinking,  —  almost  past  praying,  — 
though  not  quite,  thank  God  !  " 

He  paces  up  still  noisy  Piccadilly,  and  then  up  silent  Bond- 
street  ;  pauses  to  look  at  some  strange  fish  on  Groves's  coun- 
ter —  anything  to  while  away  the  time  :  then  he  plods  on 
toward  the  top  of  the  street,  and  turns  into  Mr.  Pillischer's 
shop,  and  up  stairs  to  the  microscopic  club-room.  There,  at 
least,  he  can  forget  himself  for  an  hour. 

He  looks  round  the  neat,  pleasant  little  place,  with  its 
cases  of  curiosities,  and  its  exquisite  photographs,  and 
bright  brass  instruments  ;  its  glass  vases  stocked  with 
delicate  water-plants  and  animalcules,  with  the  sunliglit 
gleaming  through  the  green  and  purple  seaweed  fronds, 
while  the  air  is  fresh  and  fragrant  with  the  seaweed  scent ;  a 
quiet,  cool  little  hermitage  of  science  amid  that  great,  noisy, 
luxurious  west-end  world.  At  least,  it  brings  back  to  him  the 
thought  of  the  summer  sea,  and  Aberalva,  and  his  shore- 
studies  ;  but  he  cannot  think  of  that  any  more.  It  is  past ; 
and  may  God  forgive  him  ! 

At  one  of  the  microscopes  on  the  slab  opposite  him  stands 
a  sturdy-bearded  man,  his  back  toward  the  major  ;  while  the 
wise  little  German,  hopeless  of  customers,  is  leaning  over 
him  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"  But  I  never  have  seen  its  like  ;  it  had  just  like  a  paint- 
er's easel  in  its  stomach  yesterday  !  " 

"  Why,  it 's  an  Echinus  Larva  ;  a  sucking  sea-urchin  I 
Hang  it,  if  I  had  known  you  had  n't  seen  one,  I  'd  have 
brought  up  half  a  dozen  of  them  !  " 

"  Slay  I  look,  sir?"  asked  the  major;  "I,  too,  never 
have  seen  an  Echinus  Larva." 

The  bearded  man  looks  up. 

"  Major  Campbell !  " 

"  Mr.  Thurnall  ?  I  thought  I  could  not  be  mistaken  in 
the  voice." 

"  This  is  too  pleasant,  sir,  to  renew  our  watery  loves 
together  here,"  said  Tom ;  but  a  second  look  at  the 
major's  face  showed  him  that  he  was  in  no  jesting  mood. 
"  How  is  the  party  at  Beddgelert  ?  I  fancied  you  with 
them  still." 


4-44  THE   THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER. 

"  They  are  all  in  London,  at  Lord  Scoutbush's  house,  it 
Eaton  Sqjare." 

"  In  London,  at  this  dull  time  ?     I  trust  that  nothing  un 
pleasant  has  brought  them  here." 

"Mrs.  Vavasour  is  very  ill.  We  had  thoughts  of  send- 
ing for  you,  as  the  family  physician  was  out  of  town  ;  but 
she  was  out  of  danger,  thank  God,  in  a  few  hours.  Now 
lot  me  ask  in  turn  after  you.  I  hope  no  unpleasant  busi- 
ness brings  you  up  three  hundred  miles  from  your  prac- 
tice ?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  assure  you.  Only  I  have  given  up  my  Abc- 
ralva  practice.     I  am  going  to  the  East." 

"  Like  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  Not  exactly.  You  go  as  a  dignified  soldier  of  her 
Majesty's  ;  I  as  an  undignified  Abel  Drugger,  to  dose  Bashi- 
Bazouks." 

"Impossible!  and  with  such  an  opening  as  you  had 
there  I  You  must  excuse  me  ;  but  my  opinion  of  your  pru- 
dence must  not  be  so  rudely  shaken." 

"  Why  do  you  not  ask  the  question  which  Balzac's  old 
Tourangeois  asks,  whenever  a  culprit  is  brought  before  him, 
—  '  Who  is  she  ? '  " 

"  Taking  for  granted  that  there  was  a  woman  at  the  bot- 
tom of  every  mishap  ?  I  understand  you,"  said  the  major, 
with  a  sad  smile.  "Now,  let  you  and  I  walk  a  little  to- 
gether, and  look  at  the  Echinoid  another  day — or  when  I 
return  from  Sevastopol.  " — 

Tom  went  out  with  him.  A  new  ray  of  hope  had  crossed 
the  major's  mind.  His  meeting  with  Thurnall  might  be 
providential  ;  for  he  recollected  now,  for  the  first  time, 
Mellot's  parting  hint. 

"  You  knew  Elsley  Vavasour  well  ? " 

"  No  man  better." 

"  Did  you  think  that  there  was  any  tendency  to  madness 
in  him  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  in  any  other  selfish,  vain,  irritable  man 
with  a  strong  imagination  left  to  run  riot." 

"  Humph  !  you  seem  to  have  divined  his  character. 
May  I  ask  if  you  knew  him  before  you  met  him  at  Abe- 
ralva  ?  " 

Tom  looked  up  sharply  in  the  major's  face. 

"  You  would  ask,  what  cause  I  have  for  inquiring  ?  I 
will  tell  you  presently.  Meanwhile  I  may  say,  that  Mellot 
told  me  Iraiikly  that  you  had  some  power  over  him  ;  and 


THE   THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER.  445 

mention  ed,  mysteriously,  a  name  —  Jolin  Briggs,  I  think  — 
which  it  appears  that  he  once  assumed." 

"  If  Mellot  thought  fit  to  tell  you  anything,  I  may  frankly 
tell  you  all.  John  Briggs  is  his  real  name.  I  have  known 
him  from  childhood."  And  then  Tom  poured  into  the  ears 
of  the  surprised  and  somewhat  disgusted  major  all  he  had 
to  tell. 

"  You  have  kept  your  secret  mercifully,  and  used  it 
wisely,  sir ;  and  1  and  others  shall  be  always  your  debtors 
for  it.  Now  I  dare  tell  you,  in  turn,  in  strictest  confidence 
of  co'jrsa  —  " 

"  1  am  too  poor  to  afford  the  luxury  of  babbling." 

And  the  major  told  him  what  we  all  knew. 

"  I  expected  as  much,"  said  he,  dryly.  "  Now,  I  sup- 
pose that  you  wish  me  to  exert  myself  in  finding  the 
man  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  Were  Mrs.  Vavasour  only  concerned,  I  should  say  — 
Not  I  !  Better  that  she  should  never  set  eyes  on  him 
again." 

"  Better,  indeed  !  "  said  he,  bitterly  ;  "but  it  is  I  who 
must  see  him,  if  but  for  five  minutes.     I  must !  " 

"  Major  Campbell's  wish  is  a  command.  Where  have 
you  searched  for  him  ?  " 

"  At  his  address,  at  his  publisher's,  at  the  houses  of  vari- 
ous literary  friends  of  his,  and  yet  no  trace." 

"  Has  he  gone  to  the  Continent !  " 

"  Heaven  knows !  1  have  inquired  at  every  passport 
ofiSce  for  news  of  any  one  answering  his  description ;  indeed, 
I  have  two  detectives,  I  may  tell  you,  at  this  moment, 
watching  every  possible  place.  There  is  but  one  hope,  if 
he  be  alive.     Can  he  have  gone  home  to  his  native  town  ?  " 

"  Never  !     Anywhere  but  there  !  " 

"Is  there  any  old  friend  of  the  lower  class  with  whom 
he  may  have  taken  lodgings  ?  " 

Tom  pondered. 

"  There  was  a  fellow,  a  noisy  blackguard,  whom  Briggs 
was  asking  after  this  very  summer  —  a  fellow  who  went  off 
from  Whitbury  with  some  players.  I  know  Briggs  used  to 
go  to  the  theatre  with  him  as  a  boy  —  v^^hat  was  his  name  ? 
He  tried  acting,  but  did  not  succeed  ;  and  then  became  a 
Bcene-shifter,  or  something  of  the  kind,  at  the  Adelphi. 
He  has  some  complaint,  I  forget  what,  which  made  him  an 
out-patient  at  St.  Mumpsimus's,  some  months  every  year 
I  know  that  he  was  there  this  summer,  for  I  wrote  to  ask 
38 


44G  THE   THIRTIETn    OF   SEPTEMBER. 

at  Briggs's  request,  and  Briggs  sent  him  a  sovereign  through 


me." 


"  But  what  makes  you  fancy  that  he  can  have  taken  shel- 
ter with  such  a  man,  and  one  who  knows  liis  secret?  " 

"  It  is  but  a  chance  ;  but  lie  may  have  done  it  from  the 
mere  feeling  of  loneliness  — just  to  hold  b^'  some  one  whom 
he  knows  in  this  great  wilderness  ;  especiall}'  a  man  in 
whose  eyes  he  will  be  a  great  man,  and  to  whom  he  hat- 
done  a  kindness  ;  still  it  is  the  merest  cliance." 

"We  will  take  it,  nevertheless,  forlorn  hope  though  it 
be." 

They  took  a  cab  to  the  hospital,  and,  with  some  trouble, 
got  the  man's  name  and  address,  and  drove  in  search  of 
him.  They  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  his  abode,  for  it 
was  up  an  allej'  at  the  back  of  Drury  Lane,  in  the  top  of 
one  of  those  foul  old  houses  which  hold  a  family  in  every 
room  ;  but,  by  dint  of  knocking  at  one  door  and  the  other, 
and  bearing  meekly  much  reviling  consequent  thereon,  they 
arrived,  "per  modum  tollendi,"  at  a  door  which  must  be 
the  right  one,  as  all  the  rest  were  wrong. 

"Does  John  Barker  live  here?"  asked  Thurnall,  put- 
ting his  head  in  cautiously  for  fear  of  drunken  Irishmen 
who  might  be  seized  with  the  national  impulse  to  "  slate  " 
him. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  answers  a  shrill  voice  from 
among  soapsuds  and  steaming  rags. 

"  Here  is  a  gentleman  wants  to  speak  to  him." 

"  So  do  a  many  as  won't  have  that  pleasure,  and  would 
be  little  the  bettei  for  it  if  they  had.  Get  along  with  you ; 
I  knows  your  laj." 

"  We  really  want  to  speak  to  him,  and  to  pay  him,  if  he 
will  _  " 

"  Go  along  !  I  'm  up  to  the  something-to-your-advantage 
dodge,  and  to  the  mustachio  dodge  too.  Do  you  fancy  I 
don't  know  a  baih'iF,  because  he  's  dressed  like  a  swell  ?  " 

"  But,  my  good  woman  !  "    said  Tom,  laughing. 

"  You  put  your  crocodile  foot  in  here,  and  I  '11  hit  the 
hot  water  over  the  both  of  you  !  "  and  she  caught  up  the 
pan  of  soapsuds. 

"  My  dear  soul !  I  am  a  doctor  belonging  to  the  hospital 
which  your  husband  goes  to  ;  and  have  known  him  since 
he  was  a  boy,  down  in  Berkshire." 

"  You  ?  "  and  she  looked  keenly  at  him. 

"  My  name  is  Thurnall.  I  was  a  medical  man  once  io 
Whitbury,  where  your  husband  was  born  " 


THE   THIRTIETH    OF   SEPTEMBER.  447 

•*  You  ?  "  said  she  again,  in  a  softened  tone.  "  I  knows 
tbat  name  well  enough." 

"  You  do.  What  was  your  name,  then?"  said  Tom, 
who  recognized  the  woman's  Berkshire  accent  beneath  its 
coat  of  cockneyism. 

"  Never  you  mind  ;  I  'm  no  credit  to  it,  so  I  '11  let  it  be. 
But  come  in,  for  the  old  county's  sake.  Can't  offer  you  a 
chair,  he  's  pawned  'em  all.  Pleasant  old  place  it  was  down 
there,  when  I  was  a  young  girl ;  they  say  its  grow'd  a  grand 
place  now,  wi'  a  railroad.  I  think  many  times  I  'd  like  to 
go  down  and  die  there."  She  spoke  in  a  rough,  sullen, 
careless  tone,  as  if  life-weary. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Major  Campbell,  a  little  impa- 
tiently, "can  you  find  your  husband  for  us  ?  " 

"  Why,  then  ?  "  asked  she,  sharply  ;  her  suspicion  seem- 
ing to  return. 

"  If  he  will  answer  a  few  questions,  I  will  give  him  five 
shillings.  If  he  can  find  out  for  me  what  1  want,  I  will 
give  him  five  pounds." 

"  Should  n't  1  do  as  well  ?  If  you  gi'  it  he,  it 's  little  out 
of  it  I  shall  see,  but  he  coming  home  tipsy  when  it's  spent. 
Ah,  dear  !  it  was  a  sad  day  for  me  when  I  first  fell  in  with 
they  play-goers  !  " 

"  Why  should  she  not  do  it  as  well  ? "  said  Thurnall. 
"  Mrs.  Barker,  do  you  know  anything  of  a  person  named 
Briggs  —  John  Briggs,  the  apothecary's  son,  at  Whit- 
bury  ? " 

She  laughed  a  harsh,  bitter  laugh. 

"  Know  he  ?  yes,  and  too  much  reason.  That  was  where 
it  all  begun,  along  of  that  play-going  of  he  's  and  my  mas- 
ter's." 

"  Have  you  seen  him,  lately  ?  "  asked  Campbell,  eagerly. 

"  I  seen  'un  ?  I  'd  hit  this  water  over  the  fellow,  and 
all  his  play-acting  merryandrews,  if  ever  he  sot  a  foot 
here  !  " 

"  But  have  you  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  Ees,"  said  she,  carelessly;  "he's  round  here  now,  I 
heard  my  master  say,  about  the  'Delphy,  with  my  master ; 
a  drinking,  I  suppose.     No  good,  I  '11  warrant." 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Campbell,  panting  for  breath, 
"bring  me  face  to  face  with  that  man,  and  I  '11  put  a  five- 
pound  note  in  your  hand  there  and  then." 

"  Five  pounds  is  a  sight  to  me  ;  but  it 's  a  sight  more 
than  the  sight  of  he  's  worth,"  said  she,  suspiciously,  again. 

"That's  the  gentleman's  concern,"    said  Tom.     "The 


448  THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER. 

money's  yours.     I  suppose  you  know  the  worth  of  it  bj 
now  ?  " 

"  Ees,  none  better.  But  I  don't  want  he  to  get  hold  of 
it ;  he  's  made  away  with  enough  already  ;  "  and  she  began 
to  think. 

"  Curiously  impassive  people,  we  Wessex  worthies,  when 
we  are  a  little  ground  down  with  trouble.  You  must  give 
her  time,  and  she  will  do  our  work.  She  wants  the  money, 
but  she  is  long  past  being  excited  at  the  prospect  of  it." 

"  What 's  that  you  're  whispering  i*  "  asked  she,  sharply. 

Campbell  stamped  with  impatience. 

"You  don't  trust  us  yet,  eh?  —  then,  there!"  and  he 
took  five  sovereigns  from  his  pocket,  and  tossed  them  on  the 
table.  "  There 's  your  money  !  I  trust  you  to  do  the  work, 
as  you  've  been  paid  beforehand." 

She  caught  up  the  gold,  rang  every  piece  on  the  table 
to  see  if  it  was  sound  ;  and  then  — 

"  Sally,  you  go  down  with  these  gentlemen  to  the  Jon- 
son's  Head,  and,  if  he  be  n't  there,  go  to  the  Fighting 
Cocks  ;  and,  if  he  be  n't  there,  go  to  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton ;  and  tell  he  there  's  two  gentlemen  has  heard  of  his 
poetry,  and  wants  to  hear  'un  excite.  And  then  you  give 
he  a  glass  of  liquor,  and  praise  up  his  nonsense,  and  he  '11 
tell  you  all  he  knows,  and  a  sight  more.  Gi'  un  plenty  to 
drink.  It'll  be  a  saving  and  charity  ;  for,  if  he  don't  get 
it  out  of  you,  he  will  out  of  me." 

And  she  returned  doggedly  to  her  washing. 

"  Can't  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  asked  Tom,  whose  heart 
always  yearned  over  a  Berkshire  soul.  "  1  have  plenty  of 
friends  down  at  Whitbury,  still.'* 

"  More  than  I  have.  No,  sir,"  said  she,  sadly,  and  with 
the  first  touch  of  sweetness  they  had  yet  heard  in  her 
voice.  "I've  cured  my  own  bacon,  and  I  must  eat  it. 
There  's  none  down  there  minds  me,  but  them  that  would 
be  ashamed  of  me.  And  I  could  n't  go  without  he,  and 
they  would  take  he  in  ;  so  I  must  just  bide."  And  she 
went  on  washing. 

"  God  help  her ! "  said  Campbell,  as  he  went  down 
stairs. 

"  Misery  breeds  that  temper,  and  only  misery,  in  oui 
people.  I  can  show  you  as  thorough  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
people  round  VVliitbury,  living  on  ten  shillings  a  week,  as 
you  will  show  me  in  Belgravia  living  on  five  thousand  a 
year." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Campbell.    ...         "So  '  she 


THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER.  4-19 

could  n't  go  without  he/  drunken  dog  as  he  is  !  Thus  it  is 
with  them  all  the  world  over." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  them,"  said  Tom,  cynically, 
"  and  for  the  men,  too.  They  make  fools  of  us  first  with 
our  over-fondness  of  them  ;  and  then  they  let  us  make  fools 
of  ourselves  with  their  over-fondness  of  us." 

"  I  fancy,  sometimes,  that  they  were  all  meant  to  be  the 
mates  of  angels,  and  stooped  to  men  as  apisaller ;  revers- 
ing the  old  story  of  the  sons  of  heaven,  and  the  daughters 
of  men." 

"  And  accounting  for  the  present  degeneracy.  When 
the  sons  of  heaven  married  the  daughters  of  men,  their 
offspring  were  giants,  and  men  of  renown.  Now  the  sons 
of  men  marry  the  daughters  of  heaven,  and  the  offspring  is 
Wiggle,  Waggle,  Windbag,  and  Red-tape." 

They  visited  one  public-house  after  another,  till  the  girl 
found  for  them  the  man  they  wanted,  a  shabby,  sodden- 
visaged  fellow,  with  a  would-be-jaunty  air  of  conscious 
shrewdness  and  vanity,  who  stood  before  the  bar,  his 
thumbs  in  his  armholes,  and  laying  down  the  law  to  a  group 
of  coster-boys,  for  want  of  better  audience. 

The  girl,  after  sundry  plucks  at  his  coat-tail,  stopped  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  oration,  and  explained  her  errand  some- 
what fearfully. 

Mr.  Barker  bent  down  his  head  on  one  side,  to  signify 
that  he  was  absorbed  in  attention  to  her  news  ;  and  then 
drawing  himself  up  once  more,  lifted  his  greasy  hat  high  in 
air,  bowed  to  the  very  floor,  and  broke  forth  : 

"  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors  : 
A  man  of  war,  and  eke  a  man  of  peace  — 
That  is,  if  you  come  peaceful  ;  and  if  not. 
Have  we  not  Hiren  here?  " 

And  the  fellow  put  himself  into  a  fresh  attitude. 

"  We  come  in  peace,  my  good  sir,"  said  Tom  ;  "first  to 
listen  to  your  talented  effusions,  and  next  for  a  little  private 
conversation  on  a  subject  on  which  — "  but  Mr.  Barker 
interrupted,  — 

"  To  listen,  and  to  drink  ?    The  muse  is  dry. 
And  Pegasus  doth  thirst  for  Hippocrene, 
And  fain  would  paint — imbibe  the  vulgar  call  — 
Or  hot  or  cold,  or  long  or  short  —  Attendant '  " 

The  bar  girl,  who  knew  his  humor,  came  forward. 

38* 


450  THE   THIRTIETH    OF   SEPTEMBER. 

"  Gliisses  all  round  —  these  noble  knights  will  pay  — 
Uf  liuttcst  hot,  and  stillest  stiff.  Thou  mark'st  me? 
Mow  to  your  quest  1 " 

And  he  faced  round  with  a  third  attitude. 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Briggs  V  asked  the  straight-forward 
major. 

He  rolled  his  eyes  to  every  quarter  of  the  seventh  sphere, 
clapped  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  assumed  an  expression 
of  angelic  gratitude,  — 

"  My  benefactor  !     Were  the  world  a  waste, 
A  thistle-waste,  ass-nibbled,  goldfinch-peeked, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  asses, 
I  still  could  lay  this  hand  upon  this  heart,- 
And  cry,  '  Not  yet  alone  !     I  know  a  man  — 
A  man  Jove-fronted,  and  Hyperion-curled  — 
A  gushing,  flushing,  blushing  human  heart ! '  " 

"  As  sure  as  you  live,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "  if  you  won't  talk 
honest  prose,  I  won't  pay  for  the  brandy  and  water." 

"  Base  is  the  slave  who  pays,  and  baser  prose  — 
Hang  uninspired  patter  !     'T  is  in  verse 
That  angels  praise,  and  fiends  in  Limbo  curse." 

"And  asses  bray,  I  think,"  said  Tom,  in  despair.  "Do 
you  know  where  Mr.  Briggs  is  now  ?  " 

"  And  why  the  devil  do  you  want  to  know? 

For  that 's  a  verse,  sir,  although  somewhat  slow." 

The  two  men  laughed  in  spite  of  themselves. 

"  Better  tell  the  fellow  the  plain  truth,"  said  Campbell  to 
Thurnall. 

"  Come  out  with  us,  and  I  will  toll  you."  And  Campbell 
threw  down  the  money,  and  led  him  off,  after  he  had  gulped 
down  his  own  brandy,  and  half  Tom's  beside. 

"  What  ?  leave  the  nepenthe  untasted  ?" 

They  took  liim  out,  and  ho  tucked  his  arms  through  theirs, 
and  strutted  down  Drury  Lane. 

"  The  fact  is,  sir,  —  1  speak  to  you,  of  course,  in  confi- 
dence, as  one  gentleman  to  another — " 

Mr.  Biirker  replied  by  a  lofty  and  gracious  bow. 

"  That  his  fumil}'-  are  exceedingly  distressed  at  his  ab- 
sence, and  his  wife,  who,  as  you  may  know,  is  a  lady  of 
high  family,  dangerously  ill ;  and  he  cannot  be  aware  of  the 
fact.     This  gentleman  is  the  medical  man  of  her  family,  and 


THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER.  451 

I  —  I  am  an  intimate  friend.  We  should  esteem  it,  there* 
fore,  tlie  very  greatest  service  if  you  would  give  us  any 
information  which  — '' 

•'  Weep  no  more,  gentle  shepherds,  weep  no  more  : 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  upon  a  garret  floor, 
With  fumes  of  Morpheus'  crown  about  his  head." 

"  Fumes  of  Morpheus's  crown  ?  "  asked  Thurnall. 

"  That  crimson  flower  which  crowns  the  sleepy  god. 
And  sweeps  the  soul  aloft,  though  flesh  may  nod." 

"  He  has  l^ken  to  opium  I  "  said  Thurnall,  to  the  bewil' 
dered  major.     "  What  I  should  have  expected." 

"  God  help  him  !  We  must  save  him  out  of  that  last, 
lowest  deep  !  "  cried  Campbell.     "  Where  is  he,  sir  ?  " 

•*  A  vow  !  a  vow  !     I  have  a  vow  in  heaven  ! 

Why  guide  the  hounds  toward  the  trembling  hare? 
Our  Adonais  hath  drunk  poison  ;  0  ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ?  " 

"  As  I  live,  sir,"  cried  Campbell,  losing  his  self-possession 
in  disgust  at  the  fool ;  "you  maj^  rhyme  your  own  nonsense 
as  long  as  you  will,  but  you  shan't  quote  the  Adonais  about 
that  fellow  in  my  presence." 

Mr.  Barker  shook  himself  fiercely  free  of  Campbell's  arm, 
and  faced  round  at  him  in  a  fighting  attitude.  Campbell 
stood  eying  him  sternly,  but  at  his  wit's  end. 

"  Mr.  Barker,"  said  Tom,  blandly,  "  will  yon  have  another 
glass  of  brandy  and  water,  or  shall  I  call  a  policeman  ?  " 

"Sir,"  sputtered  he,  speaking  prose  at  last,  "this  gen- 
tleman has  insulted  me  !  He  has  called  my  poetry  nonsense, 
and  my  friend  a  fellow.  And  blood  shall  not  wipe  out  — 
what  liquor  may  !  " 

The  hint  was  suflScient ;  but,  ere  he  had  drained  another 
glass,  Mr.  Barker  was  decidedly  incapable  of  managing  his 
aflairs,  much  less  theirs  ;  and  became  withal  exceedingly 
quarrelsome,  returning  angrily  to  the  grievance  of  Briggs 
having  been  called  a  fellow.  In  spite  of  all  their  entreaties, 
he  talked  himself  into  a  passion,  and  at  last,  to  Campbell  s 
extreme  disgust,  rushed  out  of  the  bar  into  the  street. 

"  This  is  too  vexatious  !  To  have  kept  half-an-hour's 
company  with  such  an  animal,  and  then  to  have  him  escape 


452  THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER. 

me  after  all !  A  just  punishment  on  rae  for  pandering'  to  We 
drunkenness." 

Tom  made  no  answer,  but  went  quietly  to  the  door,  and 
peeped  out. 

"  Pay  for  his  liquor,  major,  and  follow.  Keep  a  few  yards 
behind  me  ;  there  will  be  less  chance  of  his  recoginzing-  us 
than  if  he  saw  us  both  tog'cther." 

"  Why,  where  do  you  tliink  he's  going?  " 

"  Not  home,  I  can  see.  Ten  to  one  that  he  will  go  raging 
off"  straight  to  Briggs,  to  put  him  on  his  guard  against  us. 
Just  like  a  drunkard's  cunning  it  would  be.  There,  he  has 
turned  up  that  side  street.  Now  follow  me  quick.  0  that 
he  may  only  keep  his  legs  !  " 

Tliey  gained  the  bottom  of  that  street  before  he  had 
turned  out  of  it  ;  and  so  through  another,  and  another,  till 
they  ran  him  to  earth  in  one  of  the  courts  out  of  St.  Mar- 
tin's Lane. 

Into  a  doorway  he  went,  and  up  a  stair.  Tom  stood 
listening  at  the  bottom,  till  he  heard  the  fellow  knock  at  a 
door  far  above,  and  call  out  in  a  drunken  tone.  Then  he 
beckoned  to  Campbell,  and  both,  careless  of  what  might  fol- 
low, ran  up  stairs,  and,  pushing  him  aside,  entered  the  room 
without  ceremony. 

Their  chances  of  being  on  the  right  scent  were  small 
enough,  considering  that,  though  every  one  was  out  of 
town,  there  were  a  million  and  a  half  of  people  in  London 
at  that  moment  ;  and,  unfortunately,  at  least  fifty  thousand 
who  would  have  considered  Mr.  John  Barker  a  desirable 
visitor  ;  but  somehow,  in  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  both 
had  forgotten  the  chances  against  them,  and  the  probability 
that  they  would  have  to  retire  down  stairs  again,  apolo- 
gizing hundjly  to  some  wrathful  Joseph  Buggins,  whoso 
convivialities  they  might  have  interrupted.  But  no  ;  Tom's 
cunning  had,  as  usual,  played  him  true  ;  and,  as  they  en- 
tered the  door,  they  beheld  none  other  than  the  lost  Elsley 
Vavasour,  alias  John  Briggs. 

Major  Campbell  advanced,  bowing,  hat  in  hand,  with  a 
courteous  apology  on  his  lips. 

It  was  a  low  lean-to  garret ;  there  was  a  deal  table  and 
an  old  chair  in  it,  but  no  bed.  The  windows  were  broken  ; 
the  paper  hanging  down  in  strips.  Elsley  was  standing 
before  the  empty  fire-place,  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  as  if  he 
had  been  startled  by  the  scuffle  outside,  lie  had  not 
shaved  for  some  days. 

So  much  Tom  could  note  ;  but  no  more.     He  saw  the 


THE   THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER.  453 

glance  of  recognition  pass  over  Elsley's  face,  and  that  an 
ugly  one.  He  saw  him  draw  something  from  his  bosom, 
and  spring  like  a  cat  almost  upon  the  table.  A  flash  —  a 
crack  I     He  had  fired  a  pistol  full  in  Campbell's  face  ! 

Tom  was  startled,  not  at  the  thing,  but  that  such  a  man 
should  have  done  it.  He  had  seen  souls,  and  too  many, 
flit  out  of  the  world  b}^  that  same  tiny  crack,  in  California 
taverns,  Arabian  deserts,  Australian  gullies.  He  knew  all 
about  that :  but  he  liked  Campbell ;  and  he  breathed  more 
freely  the  next  moment,  when  he  saw  him  standing  still 
erect,  a  quiet  smile  on  his  face,  and  felt  the  plaster  dropping 
from  the  wall  upon  his  own  head.  The  bullet  had  gone 
over  the  major.     All  was  right. 

"  He  is  not  man  enough  for  a  second  shot,"  thought 
Tom,  quietly,  "while  the  major's  eye  is  on  him." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Vavasour,"  he  heard  the  major 
say,  in  a  gentle,  unmoved  voice,  "  for  this  intrusion.  I 
assure  you  that  there  is  no  cause  for  any  anger  on  your 
part ;  and  I  am  come  to  entreat  you  to  forget  and  forgive 
any  conduct  of  mine  which  may  have  caused  you  to  mistake 
either  me  or  a  lady  whom  I  am  unw^orthy  to  mention." 

"I  am  glad  the  beggar  fired  at  him,"  thought  Tom. 
"One  spice  of  danger,  and  he's  himself  again,  and  will 
overawe  the  poor  cur  by  mere  civility.  I  was  afraid  of 
some  abject  Methodist  parson  humility,  which  would  have 
given  the  other  party  a  handle." 

Elsley  heard  him  with  a  stupefied  look,  like  that  of  a 
trapped  wild  beast,  in  which  rage,  shame,  suspicion,  and 
fear,  were  mingled  with  the  vacant  glare  of  the  opium-eater's 
eye.  Then  his  eye  drooped  beneath  Campbell's  steady,  gen- 
tle gaze,  and  he  looked  uneasily  round  the  room,  still  like 
a  trapped  wild  beast,  as  if  for  a  hole  to  escape  by  ;  then 
up  again,  but  sidelong,  at  Major  Campbell. 

"  1  assure  you,  sir,  on  the  word  of  a  Christian  and  a  sol- 
dier, that  you  are  laboring  under  an  entire  misapprehension. 
For  God's  sake,  and  Mrs.  Vavasour's  sake,  come  back,  sir, 
to  those  who  will  receive  you  with  nothing  but  afiection  ! 
Your  wife  has  been  all  but  dead  ;  she  thinks  of  no  one  but 
you,  asks  for  no  one  but  you.  In  God's  name,  sir,  what 
are  you  doing  here,  while  a  wife  who  adores  you  is  dying 
from  your — I  do  not  wish  to  be  rude,  sir,  but  let  me  say  at 
least  —  neglect  ?  " 

Elsley  looked  at  him  still  askance,  puzzled,  inquiring. 
Suddenly  his  great,  beautiful  eyes  opened  to  preternatural 
<vilduess,  as  if  trying  to  grasp  a  new  thought.     He  started, 


454  THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER. 

Boif^ed  his  feet  to  and  fro,  his  arms  straight  down  by  his 
aides,  his  fingers  clutching  after  something.  Then  he  looked 
up  hurriedly  again  at  Campbell  ;  and  Thurnall  looked  at 
him  also  ;  and  his  face  was  as  the  fiice  of  an  angel. 

"  Miserable  ass  !  "  thought  Tom  ;  "  if  he  don't  see  inno- 
cence in  that  man's  countenance,  he  would  n't  see  it  in  his 
own  child's." 

Elsley  suddenly  turned  his  back  to  them,  and  thrust  hia 
hand  into  his  bosom.     Now  was  Tom's  turn. 

In  a  moment  he  had  vaulted  over  the  table  and  seized 
Elsley's  wrist,  ere  he  could  draw  the  second  pistol. 

"No,  my  dear  Jack,"  whispered  he,  quietly,  "once  is 
enough  in  a  day  !  " 

"  Not  for  him,  Tom  —  for  myself!  "  moaned  Elsley. 

"For  neither,  dear  lad!  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  and 
do  you  be  a  new  man,  and  go  home  to  Mrs.  Vavasour." 

"Never,  never,  never,  never,  never,  never !  "  shrieked 
Elsley,  like  a.  baby,  every  word  increasing  in  intensity,  till 
the  whole  house  rang  ;  and  then  threw  himself  into  the 
crazy  chair,  and  dashed  his  head  between  his  hands  upon 
the  table. 

"  This  is  a  case  for  me.  Major  Campbell.  I  think  you 
had  better  go  now." 

"  You  will  not  leave  him  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  It  is  a  very  curious  psychological  study,  and 
he  is  a  Whitbury  man." 

Campbell  knew  quite  enough  of  the  would-be  cynical 
doctor  to  understand  what  all  that  meant.  lie  came  up  to 
Elsley. 

"  Mr.  Vavasour,  I  am  going  to  the  war,  from  which  I 
expect  never  to  return.  If  you  believe  me,  give  me  your 
hand  before  I  go." 

Elsley,  without  lifting  his  head,  beat  on  the  table  with 
his  hand. 

"  I  wish  to  die  at  peace  with  you  and  all  the  world.  I 
am  innocent  in  word,  in  thought.  I  shall  not  insult  another 
person  by  saying  that  she  is  so.  If  you  believe  me,  give 
me  your  hand." 

Elsley  stretched  his  hand,  his  head  still  buried.  Camp* 
bell  took  it,  and  went  silently  down  stairs. 

"Is  he  gone  ?  "  moaned  he,  after  a  while. 

"Yes." 

"  Does  she —  does  she  care  for  him  ?  " 

"Good  heavens!  How  did  you  ever  dream  Buch  an 
absurdity  r*  " 


THE   THIRTIETH   OF   SEPTEMBER.  455 

Elwley  only  beat  upon  the  table. 

"  She  has  been  ill  ?  " 

"  Is  ill.     She  has  lost  her  child." 

"  Which  ?  "  shrieked  Elsley. 

"  A  boy  whom  she  should  have  had." 

Elsley  only  beat  on  the  table  ;  then  — 

"  Give  me  the  bottle,  Tom  I  " 

"  What  bottle  ?  " 

"  The  laudanum  ;  there  in  the  cupboard." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.    You  are  poisoning  yourself." 

"  Let  me,  then  !  I  must,  I  tell  you  !  I  can  live  on  noth 
mg  else  1  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  do  not  have  it !  I  should 
have  been  mad  by  now.  Nothing  else  keeps  off  these  fits  ; 
I  feel  one  coming  now  !     Curse  you  1  give  me  the  bottle  !  " 

"  What  fits  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  Agony  and  torture,  ever  since  I  got 
wet  on  that  mountain," 

Tom  knew  enough  to  guess  his  meaning,  and  felt  Elsley's 
pulse  and  forehead. 

"  I  tell  you  it  turns  every  bone  to  red-hot  iron  !  "  almost 
screamed  he. 

"Neuralgia;  rheumatic,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  to  him- 
self. "  Well,  this  is  not  the  thing  to  cure  you  ;  but  you 
shall  have  it  to  keep  you  quiet."  And  he  measured  him  out 
a  small  dose. 

"More,  I  tell  3'ou,  more!"  said  Elsley,  lifting  up  his 
head,  and  looking  at  it. 

"  Not  more  while  you  are  with  me." 

"  With  you  !     Who  the  devil  sent  you  here  ?  " 

"John  Briggs  !  John  Briggs  !  if  I  did  not  mean  you 
good,  should  1  be  here  now  ?  Now  do,  like  a  reasonable 
man,  tell  me  what  you  intend  to  do." 

"  What  is  that  to  you,  or  any  man  ?  "  said  Elsley,  writh- 
ing with  neuralgia. 

"  No  concern  of  mine,  of  course  ;  but  your  poor  wife  — 
you  must  see  her." 

"  I  can't !  I  won't  I  —  that  is,  not  yet  I  I  tell  you  I  can- 
not face  tht.  thought  of  her,  much  less  the  sight  of  her,  and 
her  family,  —  that  Valencia  !  I  'd  rather  the  earth  should 
open  and  swallow  me  I     Don't  talk  to  me,  I  say  I  " 

And,  hiding  his  fece  in  his  hands,  he  writhed  with  pain, 
while  Thuriiall  stood  still,  patiently  watching  him,  as  a 
pointer  dog  does  a  partridge.  He  had  found  his  game,  and 
did  not  intend  to  lose  it. 

"I  am  better,  now;  quite  well!  "  said  he,  as  the  lauda 


456  THE   THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER. 

num  began  to  work.  "  Yes  I  I  '11  go  —  tliat  will  be  it  —  go 
to  *  *  *  *  at  once.  He  '11  give  me  an  order  for  a  magazine 
article  ;  I  '11  earn  ten  pounds,  and  then  ofT  to  Italy." 

"  If  you  want  ten  pounds,  my  good  fellow,  you  can  have 
them  without  racking  your  brains  over  an  article." 

Elsley  looked  up  proudly. 

"  I  do  not  borrow,  sir  !  " 

"Well — 1  '11  give  you  five  for  those  pistols.  They  are 
of  no  use  to  you,  and  I  shall  want  a  spare  brace  for  the 
East." 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot  them.  I  spent  my  last  money  on  them," 
said  he  with  a  shudder  ;  but  1  won't  sell  them  to  you  at  a 
fancy  price  —  no  dealings  between  gentleman  and  gentleman. 
I  '11  go  to  a  shop,  and  get  for  them  what  they  are  worth." 

"Very  good.  I'll  go  with  you,  if  you  like.  I  fancy  I 
may  get  you  a  better  price  for  them  than  you  would  your- 
self; being  rather  a  knowing  one  about  the  pretty  little  bark- 
ers." And  Tom  took  his  arm,  and  walked  him  quietly 
down  into  the  street. 

"If  you  ever  go  up  those  kennel-stairs  again,  friend," 
eaid  he  to  himself,  "  my  name  's  not  Tom  Thurnall." 

They  walked  to  a  gunsmith's  shop  in  the  Strand,  where 
Tom  had  often  dealt,  and  sold  the  pistols  for  some  three 
pounds. 

"Now  then  let's  go  into  333,  and  get  a  mutton-chop." 

"No." 

Elsley  was  too  shy  ;  he  was  "  not  fit  to  be  seen." 

"  Come  to  my  rooms,  then,  in  the  Adelphi,  and  have  a  wash 
and  a  shave.  It  will  make  you  as  fresh  as  a  lark  again,  and 
then  we  '11  send  out  for  the  eatables,  and  have  a  quiet  chat." 

Elsley  did  not  say  no.  Thurnall  took  the  thing  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  and  he  was  too  weak  and  tired  to  argue  with 
him.  Beside,  there  was  a  sort  of  relief  in  the  company  of  a 
man  who,  though  he  knew  all,  chatted  on  to  him  cheerily 
and  quietly,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ;  who  at  least  treated 
him  as  a  sane  man.  From  any  one  else  he  would  have  shrunk, 
lest  they  should  find  him  out ;  but  a  companion,  who  knew 
the  worst,  at  least  saved  him  suspicion  and  dread.  His 
weakness,  now  that  the  collapse  after  passion  had  come  on, 
clung  to  any  human  friend.  The  very  sound  of  Tom's  clear 
sturdy  voice  seemed  pleasant  to  him,  after  long  solitude  and 
silence.     At  least  it  kept  off  the  fiends  of  memory. 

Tom,  anxious  to  keep  Elsley's  mind  employed  on  some 
subject  which  should  not  be  painful,  began  chatting  about 
the  war  and  its    prospects.     Elsley  soon  caught  the  cue, 


THE   THIETIETH   OF   SEPTEMBER.  457 

and  talked  with  wild  energy  and  pathos,  opiam-fed,  of  the 
coming-  struggle  between  despotism  and  liberty,  the  arising 
of  Poland  and  Hungary,  and  all  the  grand  dreams  which  then 
haunted  minds  like  his. 

"By  Jove!  "  said  Tom,  "you  are  yourself  again  now 
Why  don't  you  put  all  that  into  a  book  ?  " 

"  I  may  perhaps,"  said  Elsley  proudly. 

"  And  if  it  comes  to  that,  why  not  come  to  the  war,  and 
see  it  for  yourself?  A  new  country  —  one  of  the  finest  in 
the  world.  New  scenery,  new  actors,  — why,  Constantino- 
ple itself  is  a  poem !  Yes,  there  is  another  '  Revolt  of  Islam  ' 
to  be  written  yet.  Why  don't  you  become  our  war-poet  ? 
Come  and  see  the  fighting  ;  for  there  '11  be  plenty  of  it,  let 
them  say  what  they  will.  The  old  bear  is  not  going  to  drop 
his  dead  donkey  without  a  snap  and  a  hug.  Come  along, 
and  tell  people  what  it 's  all  really  like.  There  will  be  a 
dozen  Cockneys  writing  battle-songs,  I  '11  warrant,  who 
never  saw  a  man  shot  in  their  lives,  not  even  a  hare.  Come, 
and  give  us  the  real  genuine  grit  of  it,  —  for  if  you  can't, 
who  can  ?  " 

"It  is  a  grand  thought!  The  true  war-poets,  after  all, 
have  been  warriors  themselves.  Korner  and  Alcceus  fought 
as  well  as  sang,  and  sang  because  they  fought.  Old  Homer, 
too, — who  can  believe  that  he  had  not  hewn  his  way 
through  the  very  battles  which  he  describes,  and  seen  every 
wound,  every  shape  of  agony  'i  A  noble  thought,  to  go 
out  with  that  army  against  the  northern  Anarch,  singing  in 
the  van  of  battle,  as  Taillefer  sang  the  song  of  Roland  be- 
fore William's  knights,  and  to  die  like  him,  the  proto-martyr 
of  the  Crusade,  with  the  melody  yet  upon  one's  lips  1  " 

And  his  face  blazed  up  with  excitement. 

"  What  a  handsome  fellow  he  is,  after  all,  if  there  were 
Dut  more  of  him  !  "  said  Tom,  to  himself  "I  wonder  if 
he  'd  fight,  though,  when  the  singing-fever  was  off  him." 

He  took  Elsley  up  stairs  into  liis  bed-room,  got  him 
washed  and  shaved  ;  and  sent  out  the  woman  of  the  house 
for  mutton-chops  and  stout,  and  began  himself  setting  out 
the  luncheon  table,  while  Elsley  in  the  room  within  chanted 
to  himself  snatches  of  poetry. 

"The  notion  has  taken;  he's  composing  a  war-song 
already,  I  believe." 

It  actually  was  so  ;  but  Elsley's  brain  was  weak  and  wan- 
dering, and  he  was  soon  silent,  and    motionless   so   long 
that  Tom  opened  the  door  and  looked  in  anxiously. 
89 


458  THE   THIRTIETH   OF   SEPTEMBER. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  chair,  his  hands  fallen  on  his  lap,  th« 
tears  running  down  his  face. 

"Well?"  asked  Tom  smilingly,  not  noticing  the  tears; 
"  how  goes  on  the  opera  ?  I  heai'd  through  the  door  the 
orchestra  tuning  for  the  prelude." 

Elsley  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  puzzled,  piteous  ex- 
pression. 

"  Do  you  know,  Thurnall,  I  fancy  at  moments  that  my 
mind  is  not  what  it  was.  Fancies  flit  from  me  as  quickly 
as  they  come.  I  had  twenty  verses  five  minutes  ago,  and 
now  I  cannot  recollect  one." 

"  No  wonder,"  thought  Tom  to  himself  "My  dear  fel 
low,  recollect  all  that  you  have  suffered  with  this  neuralgia. 
Believe  me,  all  you  want  is  animal  strength.  Chops  and 
porter  will  bring  all  the  verses  back,  or  better  ones  iustea(f' 
of  them." 

lie  tried  to  make  Elsley  eat,  and  Elsley  tried  himself, 
but  failed.  The  moment  the  meat  touched  his  lips  he  loathed 
it,  and  only  courtesy  prevented  his  leaving  the  room  to 
escape  the  smell.  The  laudanum  had  done  its  work  upon 
his  digestion.  He  tried  the  porter,  and  drank  a  little  ;  then, 
suddenly  stopping,  he  pulled  out  a  phial,  dropped  a  heavy 
dose  of  his  poison  into  the  porter,  and  tossed  it  off". 

"  Sold,  am  I?"  said  Tom  to  himself  "  He  must  have 
hidden  the  bottle  as  lie  came  out  of  the  room  with  me.  0, 
the  cunning  of  those  opium-eaters  !  However,  it  will  keep 
him  quiet  just  now,  and  to  Eaton  Square  I  must  go." 

"  You  had  better  be  quiet  now,  my  dear  fellow,  after  your 
dose  ;  talking  will  only  excite  you.  Settle  yourself  on  my 
bed,  and  I  '11  be  back  in  an  hour." 

So  he  put  Elsley  on  his  bed,  carefully  removing  razors 
and  pistols  (for  he  had  still  his  fears  of  an  outburst  of  pas- 
sion), then  locked  him  in,  ran  down  into  the  Strand,  threw 
himself  into  a  cab  for  Eaton  Square,  and  asked  for  Valencia. 

Campbell  had  been  there  already ;  so  Tom  took  care  to 
tell  nothing  which  he  had  not  told,  expecting,  and  rightly, 
that  he  would  not  mention  Elsley's  having  fired  at  him. 
Lucia  was  still  all  but  senseless,  too  weak  even  to  ask  for 
Elsley  ;  —  to  attempt  any  meeting  between  her  and  her  hus- 
band would  be  madness. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  the  unhappy  man,  Mr.  Thur- 
nall ?  " 

"  Keep  him  under  my  eye,  day  and  night,  till  he  is  eithei 
rational  again,  or — " 

"  Do  you  think  that  he  may  ?  —  0  my  poor  sister  J  " 


THE    THIRTIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER.  459 

"  I  think  that  he  may  yet  end  very  sadly,  madam.  There 
ife  no  use  concealing  the  truth  from  you.  All  I  can  promise 
is,  that  I  will  treat  him  as  my  own  brother." 

Valencia  held  out  her  fair  hand  to  the  young  doctor.  He 
stooped,  and  lifted  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 

"  1  am  not  worthy  of  such  an  honor,  madam.  I  shall 
study  to  deserve  it."  And  he  bowed  himself  out,  the  same 
sturdy,  self-confident  Tom,  doing  right,  he  hardly  knew 
why,  save  that  it  was  all  in  the  way  of  business. 

And  now  arose  the  puzzle  what  to  do  with  Elsley  ?  He 
had  set  his  heart  on  going  down  to  Whitbury  the  next  day. 
He  had  been  in  England  nearly  six  months,  and  had  not  yet 
seen  his  father ;  his  heart  yearned,  too,  after  the  old  place, 
and  Mark  Armsworth,  and  many  an  old  friend,  whom  he 
might  never  see  again.  "  However,  that  fellow  I  must  see 
to,  come  what  will ;  business  first,  and  pleasure  afterwards. 
If  I  make  him  all  right — if  I  even  get  him  out  of  the  world 
decently,  I  get  the  Scoutbush  interest  on  my  side  —  though 
I  believe  I  have  it  already.  Still,  it 's  as  well  to  lay  people 
under  as  heavy  an  obligation  as  possible.  I  wish  Miss  Va- 
lencia had  asked  me  whether  Elsley  wanted  any  money ;  it 's 
expensive  keeping  him  myself.  However,  poor  thing,  she 
has  other  matters  to  think  of:  and  I  dare  say,  never  knew 
the  pleasures  of  an  empty  purse.  Here  we  are  !  Three 
and  sixpence  —  eh,  cabman?  I  suppose  you  think  I  was 
born  Saturday  night  ?  There  's  three  shillings.  Now,  don't 
chaff"  me,  my  excellent  friend,  or  you  will  find  you  have  met 
your  match,  and  a  leetle  more  !  " 

And  Tom  hurried  into  his  rooms,  and  found  Elsley  still 
sleeping. 

He  set  to  work,  packing  and  arranging,  for  with  him 
every  moment  found  its  business  ;  and  presently  heard  his 
patient  call  faintly  from  the  next  room, — 

"  Thurnall !  "  said  he  ;  "  I  have  been  a  long  journey.  I 
have  been  to  Whitbury  once  more,  and  followed  my  father 
about  his  garden,  and  sat  upon  my  mother's  knee.  And 
she  taught  me  one  text,  and  no  more.  Over  and  over  again 
she  said  it,  as  she  looked  down  at  me  with  still  sad  eyes, 
the  same  text  which  she  spoke  the  day  I  left  her  for  London. 
I  never  saw  her  again.  '  By  this,  my  son,  be  admonished  ; 
of  making  of  books  there  is  no  end  ;  and  much  study  is  a 
weariness  of  the  flesh.  Let  us  hear  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter.  Fear  God  and  keep  his  commandments  ;  for 
this  is  the  whole  d  ity  of  man.'  *  *  « 

Yes,  I  will  go  down  to  Whitbury,  and  be  a  little  child  once 


4G0  THE    THIRTIETH   OF   SEPTEMBER. 

more.  I  will  take  poor  lodgings,  and  crawl  out  day  bj  day 
down  the  old  lanes,  along  the  old  river-banks,  where  1  feu 
my  soul  with  lair  and  mad  dreams,  and  reconsider  it  al, 
from  the  beginning  ;  and  then  die.  No  one  need  know  me  ; 
and  it  they  do,  they  need  not  be  ashamed  of  me,  1  trust  — 
ashamed  that  a  poet  has  risen  up  among  them,  to  speak 
words  which  have  been  heard  across  the  globe.  At  least, 
they  need  never  know  my  shame  —  never  know  that  I  have 
broken  the  heart  of  an  angel,  who  gave  herself  to  me,  body 
and  soul  —  attempted  the  life  of  a  man  whose  shoes  I  ara 
not  worthy  to  unloose  —  never  know  that  I  have  killed  my 
own  child  !  —  that  a  blacker  brand  than  Cain's  is  on  my 
brow  !  —  Never  know  —  0,  my  God,  what  care  I  ?  Let 
them  know  all,  as  long  as  1  can  have  done  with  shams  and 
affectations,  dreams  and  vain  ambitions,  and  be  just  my  own 
self  once  more  for  one  day,  and  then  die  !  " 

And  he  burst  into  convulsive  weeping. 

"  No,  Tom,  do  not  comfort  me  !  I  ought  to  die,  and  I 
shall  die.  I  cannot  face  her  again ;  let  her  forget  me, 
and  find  a  husband  who  will  —  and  be  a  father  to  the  chil- 
dren whom  I  neglected  I  0,  my  darlings,  my  darlings  !  If 
I  could  but  see  you  once  again  !  —  but  no  !  you  too  would 
ask  me  where  I  had  been  so  long.  You  too  would  ask  me  — 
your  innocent  faces  at  least  would  —  why  I  had  killed  your 
little  brother  !  Let  me  weep  it  out,  Thurnall  ;  let  me  face 
it  all  1  This  very  misery  is  a  comfort,  for  it  will  kill  me  all 
the  sooner." 

"  If  you  really  mean  to  go  to  Whitbury,  my  poor  dear 
fellow,"  said  Tom,  at  last,  "  I  will  start  with  you  to-morrow 
morning.     For  I  too  must  go  ;  I  must  see  my  father." 

"  You  will  really  ?  "  asked  Elsley,  who  began  to  cling  to 
him  like  a  child. 

"  I  will,  indeed.  Believe  me,  you  are  right ;  you  will 
find  friends  there,  and  admirers  too.     I  know  one." 

"  You  do  ?  "  asked  he,  looking  up. 

"  Mary  Armsworth,  the  banker's  daughter." 

"  What !     That  purse-proud,  vulgar  man  ?  " 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  him.  A  truer  and  more  delicate 
heart  don't  beat.  No  one  has  more  cause  to  say  so  than  L 
He  will  receive  you  with  open  arms,  and  need  be  told  no 
more  than  is  necessary  ;  while  as  his  friend  you  may  defy 
gossip,  and  do  just  what  you  like." 

Tom  slipped  out  that  afternoon,  paid  Elsley's  pittance  of 

ent  at  his  old  lodgings;  bought  him  a  few  necessary  arti 

cles,  and  lent  him,  without  saying  anything,  a  few  more 


THE   THIETIETH    OF    SEPTEMBER.  461 

Elsley  sat  all  day  as  one  in  a  dream,  moaning  to  himself  at 
intervals,  and  following  Tom  vacantly  with  his  eyes,  as  he 
moved  about  the  room.  Excitement,  misery,  and  opium, 
were  fast  wearing  out  body  and  mind,  and  Tom  put  him  to 
bed  that  evening,  as  he  would  have  put  a  child. 

Tom  walked  out  into  the  Strand  to  smoke  in  the  fresh 
air,  and  think,  in  spite  of  himself,  of  that  fair  saint  from 
whom  he  was  so  perversely  Hying.  Gay  girls  slithered  past 
him,  looked  round  at  him,  but  in  vain  ;  those  two  great  sad 
(^yes  hung  in  his  fancy,  and  he  could  see  nothing  else.  Ah 
—  if  she  had  but  given  him  back  his  money  —  w^hy,  what  a 
fool  he  would  have  made  of  himself !  Better  as  it  was.  He 
was  meant  to  be  a  vagabond  and  an  adventurer  to  the  last ; 
and  perhaps  to  find  at  last  the  luck  which  had  flitted  away 
before  him. 

He  passed  one  of  the  theatre  doors  ;  there  was  a  group 
outside  more  noisy  and  more  earnest  than  such  groups  are 
wont  to  be  ;  and,  ere  he  could  pass  through  them,  a  shout 
from  within  rattled  the  doors  with  its  mighty  pulse,  and 
seemed  to  shake  the  very  walls.  Another ;  and  another  1 
What  was  it  ?     Fire  ? 

No.     It  was  the  news  of  Alma. 

And  the  group  surged  to  and  fro  outside,  and  talked,  and 
questioned,  and  rejoiced  ;  and  smart  gents  forgot  their  vul- 
gar pleasures,  and  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  they  too  could 
have  fought  —  had  fought  —  at  Alma  ;  and  sinful  girls  for- 
got their  shame,  and  looked  more  beautiful  than  they  had 
done  for  many  a  day,  as,  beneath  the  flaring  gas-light,  their 
faces  glowed  for  a  while  with  noble  enthusiasm  and  woman's 
sacred  pity,  as  they  questioned  Tom,  taking  him  for  an  offi- 
cer, as  to  whether  he  thought  there  were  many  killed. 

"  I  am  no  officer;  but  I  have  been  in  many  a  battle,  and 
I  know  the  Russians  well,  and  have  seen  how  they  fight; 
and  there  is  many  a  brave  man  killed,  and  many  a  one  more 
will  be." 

"  0,  does  it  hurt  them  much  ?  "  asked  one  poor  thing. 

"Not  often,"  quoth  Tom. 

"Thank  God,  thank  God!"  and  she  turned  suddenly 
away,  and  with  the  impulsive  nature  of  her  class,  burst  into 
violent  sobbing  and  weeping. 

Poor  thing!  perhaps  among  the  men  who  fought  and  fell 
that  day  was  he  to  whom  she  owed  the  curse  of  her  young 
life  ;  and  after  him  her  lonely  heart  went  forth  once  more, 
faithful  even  in  the  lowest  pit. 

"  You  are  strange  creatures,  women,  women  I  "  thought 
39* 


462  THE    THIRTIETH    OE    SEPTEMBER 

Tom;  "l)ut  I  knew  that  many  a  year  ago.  Now,  then -- 
the  game  is  growing  fast  and  furious,  it  seems.  0,  that  1 
may  find  myself  soon  in  the  thickest  of  it ! 

So  said  Tom  Thurnall  ;  and  so  said  Major  Campbell,  too, 
that  night,  as  he  prepared  everything  to  start  next  morning 
to  Southampton.  "  The  better  the  day,  the  better  the 
deed,"  qu^th  he.  "  When  a  man  is  travelling  to  a  better 
world,  he  need  not  be  afraid  of  starting  on  a  Sunday. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE   BANKER   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER. 

Tom  and  Elsley  are  safe  at  Whitbury  at  last ;  and  Toni; 
ere  he  has  seen  his  father,  has  packed  Elsley  safe  away  iu 
lodgings  with  an  old  dame  whom  he  can  trust.  Then  he 
asks  his  way  to  his  father's  new  abode, — a  small,  old-fash- 
ioned house,  with  low  bay  windows  jutting  out  upon  the 
narrow  pavement. 

Tom  stops,  and  looks  in  the  window.  Hi?  father  is  sitting 
close  to  it,  in  his  arm-chair,  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  his 
face  lifted  to  the  sunlight,  with  chin  slightly  outstretched, 
and  his  pale  eyes  feeling  for  the  light.  The  expression 
would  have  been  painful,  but  for  its  perfect  sweetness  and 
resignation.  His  countenance  is  not,  perhaps,  a  strong 
oneT  but  its  delicacy,  and  calm,  and  the  high  forehead,  and 
the  long  white  locks,  are  most  venerable.  With  a  blind 
man's  exquisite  sense,  he  feels  Tom's  shadow  fall  on  him, 
and  starts,  and  calls  him  by  name  ;  for  he  has  been  expect- 
ing him,  and  thinking  of  nothing  else  all  the  morning,  and 
takes  for  granted  that  it  must  be  he. 

In  another  moment  Tom  is  at  his  father's  side.  What  need 
to  describe  the  sacred  joy  of  those  first  few  minutes,  even 
if  it  were  possible  ?  But  unrestrained  tenderness  between 
man  and  man,  rare  as  it  is,  and,  as  it  were,  unaccustomed 
to  itself,  has  no  passionate  fluency,  no  metaphor  or  poetry, 
such  as  man  pours  out  to  woman,  and  woman  again  to  man. 
All  its  language  Ues  iu  the  tones,  the  looks,  the  little  half- 
concealed  gestures,  hints  which  pass  themselves  off  modestly 
in  a  jest ;  and  such  was  Tom's  first  interview  with  his  father  ; 
till  the  old  Isaac,  having  felt  Tom's  head  and  hands  again 
and  again,  to  be  sure  whether  it  were  his  very  son  or  no, 
made  him  sit  down  by  him,  holding  him  still  fast,  and 
began, — 

"Now,  tell  me,  tell  me,  while  Jane  gets  you  something 
to  eat.  No,  Jane,  you  mustn't  talk  to  Master  Tom  yet,  to 
bother  about  how  much  he  's  grown  ;  nonsense,  I  must  have 
him  all  to  myself,  Jane.    Go  and  get  him  some  dinner.    Now, 

(463) 


4:64  THE   BANKER    AND    HIS   DAUGHTER. 

Tom,"  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  losing  a  moment,  "you  have 
been  a  dear  boy  to  write  to  me  every  week  ;  but  there  are 
so  many  questions  which  only  word  of  mouth  will  answer, 
and  I  have  stored  uj)  dozens  of  them  !  I  want  to  know 
what  a  coral  reef  really  looks  like,  and  if  you  saw  any  tre- 
paiif^s  upon  them  ?  And  what  sort  of  strata  is  the  gold 
really  in  ?^  And  you  saw  one  of  those  giant  rays  ;  I  want  a 
whole  houVs  talk  about  the  fellow.  And  — What  an  old 
babbler  I  am  I  talking  to  you,  when  you  should  be  talking 
to  me.  Now  begin.  Let  us  have  the  trepangs  first.  Are 
they  real  Holothurians,  or  not!''  " 

And  Tom  began,  and  told  for  a  full  half  hour,  interruptea 
then  by  some  little  comment  of  the  old  man's,  which  proved 
how  prodigious  was  the  memory  within,  imprisoned  and 
forced  to  feed  upon  itself 

"  You  seem  to  know  more  about  Australia  than  I  do, 
father,"  says  Tom  at  last. 

"  No,  child  ;  but  Mary  Armsworth,  God  bless  her  !  comes 
down  here  almost  every  evening  to  read  all  your  letters  to 
me  ;  and  she  has  been  reading  to  me  a  book  of  Mrs.  Lee's 
Adventures  in  Australia,  which  reads  like  a  novel ;  delicious 
book  —  to  me,  at  least.  Why,  there  is  her  step  outside,  I 
do  believe,  and  her  father  's  with  her  J  " 

The  lighter  woman's  step  was  inaudible  to  Tom  ;  but  the 
heavy,  deliberate  waddle  of  the  banker  was  not.  lie  opened 
the  house-door,  and  then  the  parlor-door,  without  knocking; 
but,  when  he  saw  the  visitor,  he  stopped  on  the  threshold 
with  outstretched  arms. 

"  Hillo,  ho!  who  have  we  here?  Our  prodigal  son  re- 
turned, with  his  pockets  full  of  nuggets  from  the  diggings  ! 
0,  mum  's  the  word,  is  it?  "  as  Tom  laid  his  finger  on  his 
lips.  "Come  here,  then,  and  let's  have  a  look  at  you  !  " 
And  he  catches  both  Tom's  hands  in  his,  and  almost  shakes 
them  off".  "  I  knew  you  were  coming,  old  boy  !  Mary  told 
me  ;  she  's  in  all  the  old  man's  secrets.  Come  along,  Mary, 
and  see  your  old  playfellow  ?  She  has  got  a  little  fruit  for 
the  old  gentleman.  Maiy,  where  are  you  ?  —  always  collog- 
uing with  Jane." 

Mary  comes  in  ;  a  little  dumpty  body,  with  a  yellow  face, 
and  a  red  nose,  the  smile  of  an  angel,  and  a  heart  full  of 
many  little  secrets  of  other  people's  —  and  of  one  great  one  of 
her  own,  which  is  no  business  of  any  man's  —  and  with  fifty 
thousand  pounds  as  her  portion,  for  she  is  an  only  child. 
But  no  man  will  touch  that  fifty  thousand;  for  "no  onfl 


THE    BANKETJ    AND    HIS    DAUGHTER.  465 

ivould  marry  me  for  myself,"  says  Mary,  "  and  no  one  shall 
marry  me  for  my  money." 

So  she  greets  Tom  shyly  and  humbly,  without  looking  in 
his  face,  yet  very  cordially  ;  and  then  slips  away  to  deposit 
on  the  table  a  noble  pine-apple. 

"  A  little  bit  of  fruit  from  her  greenhouse,"  says  the  old 
man,  in  a  disparaging  tone  ;  "  and  0,  Jane,  bring  me  a  sau- 
cer. Here  's  a  sprat  I  just  capered  out  of  Ilemmelford  mill- 
pit  ;  perhaps  the  doctor  would  like  it  fried  for  supper,  if 
it 's  big  enough  not  to  fall  through  the  gridiron." 

Jane,  who  knows  Mark  Armsworth's  humor,  brings  in  the 
largest  dish  in  the  house,  and  Mark  pulls  out  of  his  basket 
a  great  three-pound  trout. 

"  Aha  !  my  young  rover  !  Old  Mark's  right  hand  has  n't 
forgot  its  cunning,  eh  ?  And  this  is  the  month  for  them  ; 
fish  all  quiet  now.  When  fools  go  a  shooting,  wise  men  go 
a  fishing  I  Eh  ?  Come  here,  and  look  me  over.  How  do 
I  wear,  eh  ?  As  like  a  Muscovy  duck  as  ever,  you  young 
rogue  ?  Do  you  recollect  asking  me,  at  the  Club  dinner, 
why  I  was  like  a  Muscovy  duck  ?  Because  I  was  a  fat 
thing  in  green  velveteen,  with  a  bald  red  head,  that  was 
always  waddling  about  the  river  bank.  Ah,  those  were 
days  !  We  '11  have  some  more  of  them.  Come  up  to-night 
and  try  the  old  '21  bin." 

"  I  must  have  him  myself,  to-night ;  indeed  I  must,  Mark," 
says  the  doctor. 

"  All  to  yourself,  you  selfish  old  rogue  ?  " 

"Why  — no— " 

"  We  '11  come  down,  then,  Mary  and  I,  and  bring  the  '21 
with  us,  and  hear  all  his  cock-and-bull  stories.  Full  of 
travellers'  lies  as  ever,  eh  ?  Well,  I  '11  come,  and  smoke 
my  pipe  with  you.  Always  the  same  old  Mark,  my  lad," 
nudging  Tom  with  his  elbow  ;  "  one  fellow  comes  and  bor- 
rows my  money,  and  goes  out,  and  calls  me  a  stingy  old 
hunks,  because  I  won't  let  him  cheat  me  ;  another  comes, 
and  eats  my  pines,  and  drinks  my  port,  goes  home,  and 
calls  me  a  purse-proud  upstart,  because  he  can't  match  'em. 
Never  mind  ;  old  Mark  's  old  Mark  ;  sound  in  the  heart, 
and  sound  in  the  liver,  just  the  same  as  thirty  years  agOj 
and  will  be  till  he  takes  his  last  quietus  est, 

'  And  drops  into  his  grassy  nest. ' 

By,  by,  doctor  !     Come,  Mary  !  " 
And  out  he  toddled,  with  silent  little  Mary  at  his  heels. 
"  Old  Mark  wears  well,  body  and  soul,"  said  Tom. 


466        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

"  He  is  a  noble,  generous  fellow,  and  as  delicate-hearted 
as  a  woman  withal,  in  spite  of  his  conceit  and  roughness. 
Fifty  and  odd  years  now,  Tom,  have  we  been  brothers,  and 
I  never  found  him  change.  And  brothers  we  shall  be,  1 
trust,  a  few  years  more,  till  I  see  you  back  again  from  the 
East,  comfortably  settled.     And  then  —  " 

"Don't  talk  of  that,  sir,  please!"  said  Tom,  quite 
quickly  and  sharply.     "  How  ill  poor  Mary  looks  !  " 

"  So  they  say,  poor  child  ;  and  one  hears  it  in  her  voice. 
Ah,  Tom,  that  girl  is  an  angel  ;  she  has  been  to  me  daugh- 
ter, doctor,  clergyman,  eyes,  and  library  ;  and  would  have 
been  nurse  too,  if  it  had  not  been  for  making  old  Jane 
jealous.     But  she  is  ill.     Some  love  aflFair,  I  suppose  —  " 

"  IIow  quaint  it  is,  that  the  father  has  kept  all  the  animal 
vigor  to  himself,  and  transmitted  none  to  the  daughter !  " 

"  He  has  not  kept  the  soul  to  himself,  Tom,  or  the  eyes 
either.  She  will  bring  me  in  wild  flowers,  and  talk  to  me 
about  them,  till  I  fancy  I  can  see  them  as  well  as  ever. 
Ah,  well !  It  is  a  sweet  world  still.  Tom,  and  there  are 
Bweet  souls  in  it.  A  sweet  world  ;  —  I  was  too  fond  of  look- 
ing at  it  once,  I  suppose,  so  God  took  away  my  sight,  that 
I  might  learn  to  look  at  Him."  And  the  old  man  lay  back 
in  his  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  haTidkerchief,  and 
was  quite  still  awhile.  And  Tom  watched  him,  and  thought 
that  he  would  give  all  his  cunning  and  power  to  be  like 
that  old  man. 

Then  Jane  came  in  and  laid  the  cloth,  —  a  coarse  one 
enough,  and  Tom  picked  a  cold  mutton-bone  with  a  steel 
fork,  and  drank  his  pint  of  beer  from  the  public-house,  and 
lighted  his  father's  pipe,  and  then  his  own,  and  vowed  that 
he  had  never  dined  so  well  in  his  life,  and  began  his  travel- 
ler's stories  again. 

And  in  the  evening  Mark  came  in,  with  a  bottle  of  the 
'21  in  his  coat-tail  pocket ;  and  the  three  sat  and  chatted, 
while  Mary  brought  out  her  work,  and  stitched,  listening 
silently,  till  it  was  time  to  lead  the  old  man  up  stairs. 

Tom  put  his  father  to  bed,  and  then  made  a  hesitating 
"equest,  — 

"There  is  a  pooi  sick  man  whom  I  brought  down  with 
me,  sir,  if  you  could  spare  me  half  an  hour.  It  really  is  a 
professional  case  ;  he  is  under  my  charge,  I  may  say." 

"  What  is  it,  boy  ?  " 

"  Well,  laudanum  and  a  broken  heart." 

"  Exercise  and  ammonia  for  the  first.  For  the  second, 
Grod's  grace  and  the  grave  ;  and  those  latter  medicines  you 


THE  BANKEE  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.         467 

cau't  exhibit,  my  dear  boy.  Well,  as  it  is  professional 
duty,  I  suppose  you  must ;  but  don't  exceed  the  hour  ;  I 
Khali  lie  awake  till  you  return,  and  then  you  must  talk  me 
to  sleep." 

So  Tom  went  out  and  homeward  -with  Mark  and  Mary, 
for  their  roads  lay  together ;  and,  as  he  went,  he  thought 
good  to  tell  them  somewhat  of  the  history  of  John  Briggs, 
alias  Elsley  Vavasour. 

"  Poor  fool  !  "  said  Mark,  who  listened  in  silence  to  the 
end.  "  Why  didn't  he  mind  his  bottles,  and  just  do  what 
Heaven  sent  him  to  do  ?  Is  he  in  want  of  the  rhino, 
Tom  ?  " 

"  He  had  not  five  shillings  left  after  he  had  paid  his  fare  ; 
and  he  refuses  to  ask  his  wife  for  a  farthing." 

"  Quite  right  —  very  proper  spirit."  And  Mark  walked 
on  in  silence  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  say,  Tom,  a  fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted. 
There  's  a  five-pound  note  for  him,  you  begging,  insinuating 
dog,  and  be  hanged  to  you  both  1  I  shall  die  in  the  work- 
house at  this  rate." 

"  0,  father,  you  will  never  miss  —  " 

"  Who  told  you  I  thought  I  should,  pray  ?  Don't  you 
go  giving  another  five  pounds,  out  of  your  pocket-money, 
behind  my  back,  ma'am.  I  know  your  tricks  of  old.  Tom, 
I  '11  come  and  see  the  poor  beggar  to-morrow  with  you,  and 
call  him  Mr.  Vavasour,  —  Lord  Vavasour,  if  he  likes,  —  if 
you  '11  warrant  me  against  laughing  in  his  face."  And  the 
old  man  did  laugh,  till  he  stopped  and  held  his  sides  again. 

"0,  father,  father,  don't  be  so  cruel!  Remember  how 
wretched  the  poor  man  is." 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  old  Bolus's  boy  turned 
poet.  Why  did  you  tell  me,  Tom,  you  bad  fellow  ?  It 's 
too  much  for  a  man  at  my  time  of  life,  and  after  this  dinner 
too." 

And  with  that  he  opened  the  little  gate  by  the  side  of  the 
grand  one,  and  turned  to  ask  Tom,  — 

"  Won't  come  in,  boy,  and  have  one  more  cigar  ?  " 

"  I  promised  my  father  to  be  back  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible." 

"  Good  lad  —  that 's  the  plan  to  go  on,  — 

•  You  '11  be  church-warden  before  all 's  over, 
And  so  arrive  at  wealth  and  fame.' 

Instead  of  writing  po-o-o-etry  !  Do  you  recollect  that 
morning,  and  the  black  draught  ?     0  dear,  my  side  I  " 


468        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTKR. 

And  Tom  heard  him  keckling-  to  himself  up  the  garden, 
tvaik  to  his  house  ;  went  olF  to  see  that  Elsley  was  safe  ; 
and  then  home,  and  slept  like  a  top  ;  and  no  wonder,  for  he 
would  have  done  so  the  nig-lit  before  his  execution. 

And  what  was  little  Mary  doing  all  the  while  ? 

She  had  gone  up  to  the  room,  after  telling  her  father, 
with  a  kiss,  not  to  forget  to  say  his  prayers.  And  then  she 
fed  her  canary  bird,  and  made  up  the  Persian  cat's  bed  ; 
and  then  sat  long  at  the  open  window,  gazing  out  over  the 
shadow-dappled  lawn,  away  to  the  poplars  sleeping  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  shining  silent  stream,  and  the  shining 
silent  stars,  till  she  seemed  to  become  as  one  of  them,  and 
a  quiet  heaven  within  her  eyes  took  counsel  with  the  quiet 
heaven  above.  And  then  she  drew  in  suddenly,  as  if  stung 
by  some  random  thouglit,  and  shut  the  window.  A  picture 
hung  over  her  mantle-piece  —  a  portrait  of  her  mother,  wdio 
had  been  a  country  beauty  in  her  time.  She  glanced  at  it, 
and  then  at  the  looking-glass,  Would  she  have  given  her 
fifty  thousand  pounds  to  have  exchanged  her  face  for  such 
a  face  as  that 't 

She  cauglit  up  her  little  Thomas  a  Kempis,  marked 
through  and  through  with  lines  and  references,  and  sat  and 
read  steadfastly  for  an  hour  and  more.  That  was  her 
school,  as  it  has  been  the  school  of  many  a  noble  soul. 
And,  for  some  cause  or  other,  that  stinging  thought  re- 
turned no  more  ;  and  she  knelt  and  prayed  like  a  little 
child ;  and  like  a  little  child  slept  sweetly  all  the  night,  and 
was  away  before  breakfast  the  next  morning,  after  feeding 
the  canary  and  the  cat,  to  old  women  who  worshipped  her 
as  their  ministering  angel,  and  said,  looking  after  her : 
"  That  dear  Miss  Mary,  pity  she  is  so  plain  !  Sucli  a  match 
as  she  might  have  made  !  But  she  '11  be  handsome  enough 
when  she  is  a  blessed  angel  in  heaven." 

Ah,  true  sisters  of  mercy,  whom  the  world  sneers  at  as 
"  old  maids,"  if  you  pour  out  on  cats  and  dogs  and  parrots 
a  little  of  the  love  which  is  yearning  to  spend  itself  on 
children  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood  !  As  long  as  such  as 
you  walk  this  lower  world,  one  needs  no  Butler's  Analogy 
to  prove  to  us  that  there  is  another  world,  wliere  such  ab 
you  will  have  a  fuller  and  a  fairer  (I  dare  not  say  a  juster) 
portion, 

****** 

Next  morning  Mark  started  with  Tom  to  call  on  Elsley, 
chatting  and  pufling  all  the  way. 

"J '11  butter  him.  trust  me.     Nothing  comforts  a  poor 


THE   BANKER   AND   HIS   DAUGHTER.  469 

leggar  like  a  bit  of  praise  when  he  's  down  ;  and  all  I'ellows 
that  take  to  writing  are  as  gre(jdy  after  it  as  trout  after 
the  drake,  even  if  they  only  scribble  in  county  newspapers. 
I  Ve  watched  them  when  I  've  been  electioneering,  my 
boy  !  " 

"Only,"  said  Tom,  "don't  be  angry  with  him  if  he  is 
proud  and  peevish.  The  poor  follow  is  all  but  mad  with 
misery." 

"  Poh  !  quarrel  with  him  ?  whom  did  I  ever  quarrel  with  ? 
If  he  barks,  I  '11  stop  his  mouth  with  a  good  dinuer.  I  sup- 
pose he  's  gentleman  enough  to  invite  ?  " 

"  As  much  a  gentleman  as  you  and  I  ;  not  of  the  very 
first  water,  of  course.  Still,  he  eats  like  other  people,  and 
don't  break  many  glasses  during  a  sitting.  Think !  he 
couldn't  have  been  a  very  great  cad  to  marry  a  nobleman's 
daughter  !  " 

"  Why,  no.  Speaks  well  for  him,  that,  considering  his 
breeding.  lie  must  be  a  very  clever  fellow  to  have  caught 
the  trick  of  the  thing  so  soon." 

"  And  so  he  is,  a  very  clever  fellow  ;  too  clever  by  half; 
and  a  very  fine-hearted  fellow,  too,  in  spite  of  his  conceit 
and  his  temper.  But  that  don't  prevent  his  being  an  awful 
fool !  " 

"  You  speak  like  a  book,  Tom  !  "  said  old  Mark,  clapping 
him  on  the  back.  "  Look  at  me  !  no  one  can  say  I  was 
ever  troubled  with  genius  ;  but  I  can  show  my  money,  pay 
my  way,  eat  my  dinner,  kill  my  trout,  hunt  my  hounds, 
help  a  lame  dog  over  a  stile  "  (which  was  Mark's  phrase 
for  doing  a  generous  thing),  "  and  thank  God  for  all  ;  and 
who  wants  more,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  But  here  we  are 
—  you  go  up  first !  " 

They  found  Elsley  crouched  up  over  the  empty  grate,  his 
head  in  his  hands,  and  a  few  scraps  of  paper  by  him,  on 
which  he  had  been  trying  to  scribble.  He  did  not  look  up 
as  they  came  in,  but  gave  a  sort  of  impatient  half-turn,  as 
if  angry  at  being  disturbed.  Tom  was  about  to  announce 
the  banker ;  but  he  announced  himself 

"  Come  to  do  myself  the  honor  of  calling  on  you,  Mr. 
Vavasour.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  poorly ;  I  hope  our 
Whitbury  air  will  set  all  right." 

"  You  mistake  me,  sir  ;  my  name  is  Briggs  !  "  said  Els- 
ley, without  turning  his  head  ;  but  a  moment  after  he  looked 
tip  angrily. 

"Mr.  Armsworth  ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but  what 
40 


470  THE   BANKER   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER. 

brings  you  here  ?  Are  you  come,  sir,  to  use  the  rich  suo 
cessful  man's  right,  and  lecture  me  in  my  misery  ?  " 

"  'Pon  my  word,  sir,  you  must  have  forgotten  old  Mark 
Armsworth  indeed,  if  you  fancy  him  capable  of  any  such 
dirt.  No,  sir,  I  came  to  paj'^  my  respects  to  you,  sir,  hop- 
ing that  you'd  come  up  and  take  a  family  dinner.  I  could 
do  no  less,"  ran  on  the  banker,  seeing  tliat  Elsley  was  pre- 
parmg  a  peevish  answer,  "  considering  the  honor  that,  I 
hear,  you  have  been  to  your  native  town.  A  very  distin- 
guished person,  our  friend  Tom  tells  me  :  and  we  ought  to 
be  proud  of  you,  and  behave  to  you  as  you  deserve,  for  I 
am  sure  we  don't  send  too  many  clever  fellows  out  of 
Whitbury." 

"  Would  that  you  had  never  sent  me  !  "  said  Elsley,  in 
his  bitter  way. 

"Ah,  sir,  that's  matter  of  opinion!  You  would  never 
have  been  heard  of  down  here,  never  have  had  justice  done 
you,  I  mean  ;  for  heard  of  you  have  been.  There  's  my 
daughter  has  read  your  poems  again  and  again  —  always 
quoting  them  ;  and  very  pretty  they  sound,  too.  Poetry  is 
not  in  my  line,  of  course  ;  still,  it 's  a  credit  to  a  man  to  do 
anything  well,  if  he  has  the  gift ;  and  she  tells  me  that  you 
have  it,  and  plenty  of  it.  And,  though  she  's  no  fine  lady, 
thank  Heaven,  I  '11  back  her  for  good  sense  against  any 
woman.  Come  up,  sir,  and  judge  for  yourself  if  I  don't 
speak  the  truth  ;  she  will  be  delighted  to  meet  you,  and 
bade  me  say  so." 

By  this  time  good  Mark  had  talked  himself  out  of  breath  ; 
and  Elsley,  flushing  up,  as  of  old,  at  a  little  praise,  began  to 
stammer  an  excuse.  "  His  nerves  were  so  weak,  and  his 
spirits  so  broken  with  late  troubles." 

"  My  dear  sir,  that 's  the  very  reason  I  want  you  to 
come.  A  bottle  of  port  will  cure  the  nerves,  and  a  pleasant 
chat  the  spirits.  Nothing  like  forgetting  all  for  a  little 
time  ;  and  then  to  it  again  with  a  fresh  lease  of  strength, 
and  beat  it  at  last  like  a  man." 

"  Too  late,  my  dear  sir ;  I  must  pay  the  penalty  of  my 
own  folly,"  said  Elsley,  reall}'-  won  by  the  man's  cordiality. 

'•'  Never  too  late,  sir,  while  there  's  life  left  in  us.  And," 
he  went  on  in  a  gentler  tone,  "  if  we  all  were  to  pay  for  our 
own  follies,  or  lie  down  and  die  when  we  saw  them  coming 
full  (^ry  at  our  heels,  where  would  any  of  us  be  by  now  ?  I 
have  been  a  fool  in  my  time,  young  gentleman,  more  than 
once  or  twice  ;  and  that,  too,  when  I  was  old  enough  to  be 
your  father  ;  and  down  I  went,  and  deserved  what  I  got ; 


THE   BANKEE   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER.  471 

but  my  rule  always  was,  Fight  fair,  f\iU  soft,  know  whoii 
you  've  got  enough,  and  don't  cry  out  when  you  've  got  it. 
but  just  go  home,  train  again,  and  say,  Better  luck  next 
fight."  And  so  old  Mark's  sermon  ended  (as  most  of  them 
did)  in  somewhat  Socratic  allegory,  savoring  rather  of  the 
market  than  of  the  study  ;  but  Elsley  understood  him,  and 
looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"You,  too,  are. somewhat  of  a  poet  in  your  way,  I  see, 
sir !  " 

"  I  never  thought  to  live  to  hear  that,  sir.  I  can't  doubt 
now  that  you  are  cleverer  than  your  neighbors,  for  you 
have  found  out  something  which  they  never  did.  But  you 
will  come  ?  for  that 's  my  business." 

Elsley  looked  inquiringly  at  Tom  ;  he  had  learnt  now  to 
consult  his  eye,  and  lean  on  him  hke  a  child.  Tom  looked 
a  stout  yes,  and  Elsley  said,  languidly,— 

"  You  have  given  me  so  much  new  and  good  advice  in  a 
few  minutes,  sir,  that  I  must  really  do  myself  the  pleasure 
of  coming  and  hearing  more." 

"  Well  done,  our  side  !  "  cried  old  Mark.  "  Dinner  at 
half-past  five.  No  London  late  hours  here,  sir.  Miss  Arms- 
woTth  will  be  out  of  her  mind  when  she  hears  you  're 
coming." 

And  oflF  he  went. 

"  Do  you  think  he  '11  come  up  to  the  scratch,  Tom  ?  " 

"I  am  very  much  afraid  his  courage  will  foil  him.  I  will 
see  him  again,  and  bring  him  up  with  me  ;  but  now,  my 
dear  Mr.  Armsworth,  do  remember  one  thing — that  if  you 
go  on  with  him  at  jouv  usual  rate  of  hospitality,  the  man 
will  as  surely  be  drunk,  as  his  nerves  and  brain  are  all  but 
ruined  ;  and  if  he  is  so  he  will  most  probably  destroy  him- 
self to-morrow  morning." 

"  Destroy  himself?  " 

"  He  will.  The  shame  of  making  a  fool  of  himself  just 
now  before  you  will  be  more  than  he  could  bear.  So,  be 
stingy  for  once.  Hie  will  not  wish  for  it  unless  you  press 
him  ;  but  if  he  talks  (and  he  will  talk  after  the  first  half 
hour),  he  will  forget  himself,  and  half  a  bottle  will  make 
him  mad  ;  and  then  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"  Good  gracious  !  Why,  these  poets  want  as  tender  han- 
dling as  a  bag  of  gunpowder  over  the  fire." 

"  You  speak  like  a  book  there,  in  your  turn."  And  Tom 
went  home  to  his  father. 

He  returned  in  due  tinffe.     A  new  difficulty  had  arisen 
Elsley,  under  the  excitement  of  expectation,  had  gone  out 


472        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

and  deigned  to  buy  laudanum  —  so  will  an  unhealtliy  crav- 
ing degrade  a  man! — of  old  Bolus  himself,  who,  luckily, 
did  not  recognize  him.  He  had  taken  his  fullest  dose,  and 
was  now  unable  to  go  anywhere,  or  do  anything.  Tom 
did  not  disturb  him  ;  but  went  away,  sorely  perplexed,  and 
very  much  minded  to  tell  a  white  lie  to  Armsworth,  in 
whose  eyes  this  would  l^e  an  ofleuce — not  unpardonable, 
for  notiiing  with  him  was  unpardonal)le,  save  lying  or  cru- 
elty—  but  very  grievous.  If  a  man  had  drunk  too  mucli 
wine  in  his  house,  he  would  have  simply  kept  his  eye  on 
him  afterwards,  as  a  fool  who  did  not  know  when  he  had 
his  "quotum;"  but  laudanum-drinking — involving,  too, 
the  breaking  of  an  engagement  which,  well  managed,  might 
have  been  of  immense  use  to  Elsley  —  was  a  very  diilerent 
matter.  So  Tom  knew  not  what  to  say  or  do ;  and,  not 
knowing,  determined  to  wait  on  Providence,  smartened 
himself  as  best  he  could,  went  up  to  the  great  house,  and 
found  Miss  Mary. 

"  I  '11  tell  her.  She  will  manage  it  somehow,  if  she  is  a 
woman  ;  much  more  if  she  is  an  angel,  as  my  father  says." 

Mary  looked  very  much  shocked  and  grieved  ;  answered 
hardly  a  word  ;  but  said,  at  last,  "  Come  in.  whih^  1  go  and 
see  my  father."  He  came  into  the  smart  drawing-room, 
which  he  could  see  was  seldom  used  ;  for  Mary  lived  in  her 
own  room,  her  father  in  his  counting-house,  or  in  his  "den." 
In  ten  minutes  she  came  down.  Tom  thought  she  had  been 
crying. 

"  I  have  settled  it.  Poor,  unhappy  man  !  We  will  talk 
of  something  more  pleasant.  Tell  me  about  your  ship- 
wreck, and  that  place,  —  Aberalva,  is  it  not?  What  a 
pretty  name  !  " 

Tom  told  her,  wondering  then,  and  wondering  long  after- 
wards, how  she  had  "  settled  it"  with  her  father.  She 
chatted  on  artlessly  enough,  till  the  old  man  came  in,  ami 
to  dinner,  in  capital  humor,  without  saying  one  word  of 
Elsley. 

"How  has  the  old  lion  been  tamed?"  thought  Tom. 
"  The  two  greatest  affronts  you  could  oiler  him  in  old  timed 
were,  to  break  an  (nigagement,  and  to  despise  his  good 
cheer."  He  did  not  know  what  the  quiet  oil  on  the  waters 
of  such  a  spirit  as  Mary's  can  etl'ect. 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  enough  till  nine,  in  chat- 
ting over  old  times,  and  listening  to  the  history  of  every 
extraordinary  trout  and  fox  which  had  been  killed  withic 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.        475 

twenty  miles,  wh3n  the  footboy  entered,  with  a  somewhat 
scared  face. 

"  Please,  sir,  is  Mr.  Vavasour  here  ?  " 

"  Here  ?     Who  wants  him  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Brown,  sir,  in  Hemmelford-street.  Says  he  lodges 
with  her,  and  has  been  to  see  for  him  at  Dr.  ThurnaH's." 

"I  think  you  had  better  go,  Mr.  Thurnall,"  said  Mary, 
quietly. 

"  Indeed  you  had,  boy.  Bother  poets,  and  the  day  they 
first  began  to  breed  in  Whitbury !  Such  an  evening 
spoilt!  Have  a  cup  of  coffee?  No? — then  a  glass  of 
sherry  ?  " 

Out  went  Tom.  Mrs.  Brown  had  been  up,  and  seen  him 
seemingly  sleeping  ;  then  had  heard  him  run  down  stairs 
hurriedly.  He  passed  her  in  the  passage,  looking  very 
wild.  "Seemed,  sir,  just  like  my  nevy's  wife's  brother, 
Will  Ford,  before  he  made  way  with  he'self." 

Tom  goes  off"  P')st  haste,  revolving  many  things  in  a 
crafty  heart.  Then  ae  steers  for  Bolus's  shop.  Bolus  is  at 
"  The  Angler's  Arms  ;  "  but  his  assistant  is  in. 

"Did  a  gentleman  call  here  just  now,  in  a  long  cloak, 
with  a  felt  wide-awake  ?  " 

"  Yes."  And  the  assistant  looks  confused  enough  for 
Tom  to  rejoin,  — 

"  And  you  sold  him  laudanum  ?  '* 

"Why  — ah  — " 

"  And  you  had  sold  him  laudanum  already  this  afternoon, 
you  young  rascal  I  How  dare  you,  twice  in  six  hours  ? 
I  '11  hold  you  responsible  for  the  man's  life  !  " 

"  You  "dare  call  me  a  rascal  ?  "  blusters  the  youth,  terror- 
stricken  at  finding  how  much  Tom  knows. 

"  I  am  a  member  of  the  College  of  Surgeons,"  says  Tom, 
recovering  his  coolness,  "  and  have  just  been  dining  with 
Mr.  Armswortii.     I  suppose  you  know  him  ?  " 

The  assistant  shook  in  his  shoes  at  the  name  of  that  ter- 
rible justice  of  the  peace,  and  of  the  war  also  ;  and  meekly 
and  contritely  he  replied, — 

"  0,  sir,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  're  in  a  very  neat  scrape  ;  you  could  not  have 
feathered  your  nest  better,"  says  Tom,  quietly  filling  his 
pipe,  and  tliinking.  "  As  you  behave  now,  I  will  get  you 
out  of  it,  or  leave  you  to — you  know  what,  as  well  as  I. 
Get  your  hat." 

He  went  out,  and  the  youth  follov^ed,  trembling,  while 
Tom  formed  his  plans  in  his  mind. 
40* 


474        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

"  The  wild  beast  goes  home  to  his  lair  to  die,  and  so  ma> 
he  ;  for  I  fear  it 's  life  and  death  now.  I  '11  try  the  house 
where  he  was  born.  Somewhere  in  Water  Lane  it  is,  I 
know." 

And  toward  Water  Lane  he  hurried.  It  was  a  low-lying 
offshoot  of  the  town,  leading  along  the  water-meadows, 
with  a  straggling  row  of  houses  on  each  side,  the  triennial 
haunts  of  fever  and  ague.  Before  them,  on  eacl)  side  the 
road,  and  fringed  with  pollard  willows  and  tall  poplars,  ran 
a  tiny  branch  of  the  Whit,  to  feed  some  mill  below  ;  and 
spread  out,  meanwhile,  into  ponds  and  mires  full  of  offal  and 
duck-weed  and  rank  floating  grass.  A  tliick  mist  hung  knee- 
deep  over  them,  and  over  the  gardens  right  and  left ;  and, 
as  Tom  came  down  on  the  lane  from  the  main  street  above, 
he  could  see  the  mist  spreading  across  the  water-meadows, 
and  reflecting  the  moonbeams  like  a  lake ;  and  as  he  walked 
into  it  he  felt  as  if  he  were  walking  down  a  well.  And  he 
hurried  down  the  lane,  looking  out  anxiously  ahead  for  the 
long  cloak. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  better  sort  of  house.  That  might 
be  it.  He  would  take  the  chance.  There  was  a  man  of 
the  middle  class,  and  two  or  three  women,  standing  at  the 
gate.     He  went  up,  — 

"Pray,  sir,  did  a  medical  man  named  Briggs  ever  live 
here  ! " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  that  for  ?  " 

"Why," — Tom  thought  matters  were  too  serious  for 
delicacy,  —  "I  am  looking  for  a  gentleman,  and  thought  he 
might  have  come  here." 

"  And  so  he  did,  if  you  mean  one  in  a  queer  hat  and  a 
cloak." 

"  How  long  since  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  came  up  our  garden  an  hour  or  more  ago ; 
walked  right  into  the  parlor  without  with  your  leave,  or  by 
your  leave,  and  stared  at  us  all  round  like  one  out  of  his 
mind  ;  and  so  away,  as  soon  as  ever  I  asked  him  what  he 
was  at —  " 

"Which  way?" 

"  To  the  river,  I  expect.  I  ran  out,  and  saw  him  go  down 
the  lane,  but  I  was  not  going  far  by  night  alone  with  any 
such  strajige  customers." 

"  Lend  me  a  lantern,  then,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  " 

The  lantern  is  lent,  and  Tom  starts  again  down  the  lane. 

Now  to  search.  At  the  end  of  the  lane  is  a  cross-road 
parallel  to  the  river.    A  broad  still  ditch  lies  beyond  it,  with 


THE  BANKEE  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.         475 

a  little  bridge  across,  where  one  gets  minnows  for  bait ;  then 
a  broad  water-meadow  ;  then  silver  Whit. 

The  bridge-gate  is  open.  Tom  hurries  across  the  road  to 
it.  The  lantern  shows  him  fresh  foot-marks  going  into  the 
meadow.     Forward ! 

Up  and  down  in  that  meadow  for  an  hour  or  more  did  Tom 
and  the  trembling  youth  beat  like  a  brace  of  pointer  dogs, 
stumbling  into  gripes,  and  over  sleeping  cows  ;  and  more 
than  once  stopping  short  just  in  time,  as  they  were  walking 
into  some  broad  and  deep  feeder. 

Almost  in  despair,  and  after  having  searched  down  the 
river  bank  for  full  two  hundred  yards,  Tom  was  on  the  point 
of  returning,  when  his  eye  rested  on  a  part  of  the  stream 
where  the  mist  lay  higher  than  usual,  and  let  the  reflection 
of  the  moonlight  off  the  water  reach  his  eye  ;  and  in  the 
•moon-lit  ripples,  close  to  the  further  bank  of  the  river  — 
what  was  that  black  lump  ? 

Tom  knew  the  spot  well ;  the  river  there  is  very  broad 
and  very  shallow,  flowing  round  low  islands  of  gravel  and 
turf  It  was  very  low  just  now  too,  as  it  generally  is  in 
October :  there  could  not  be  four  inches  of  water  where  the 
black  lump  lay,  but  on  the  side  nearest  him  the  water  was 
full  knee-deep. 

The  thing,  whatever  it  was,  was  forty  yards  from  him  ; 
and  it  was  a  cold  night  for  wading.  It  might  be  a  hassock 
of  rushes  ;  a  tuft  of  the  great  water-dock  ;  a  dead  dog ;  one 
of  the  "hangs,"  with  which  the  club-water  was  studded, 
torn  up  and  stranded ;  but  yet,  to  Tom,  it  had  not  a  canny 
look. 

"  As  usual !     Here  am  I  getting  wet,  dirty,  and  misera 
ble  about  matters  which  are  not  the  slightest  concern  of 
mine  !    I  believe  I  shall  end  by  getting  hanged  or  shot  in 
somebody  else's  place,  with  this  confounded  spirit  of  med- 
dling.    Yah  !  how  cold  the  water  is  !  " 

For  in  he  went,  the  grumbling  honest  dog ;  stepped 
across  to  the  black  lump  :  and  lifted  it  up  hastily  enough, 
—  for  it  Avas  Elsley  Vavasour. 

Drowned  ? 

No.  But  wet  through,  and  senseless  from  mingled  cold 
and  laudanum. 

Whether  he  had  meant  to  drown  himself;  and,  lighting  on 
the  shallow,  had  stumbled  on  till  he  fell  exhausted ;  or 
whether  he  had  merely  blundered  into  the  stream,  careless 
whither  he  went,  Tom  knew  not,  and  never  knew ;  fot 
Elsley  himself  could  not  recollect. 


4:76        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

Tom  took  him  in  his  arms,  carried  him  ashore,  and  up 
through  the  water-meadow ;  borrowed  a  bkuiket  and  a 
v\'heelbarrow  at  the  nearest  cottage  ;  wrapped  him  up,  aiid 
mach^  the  ofl'en<ling  surgeon's  assistant  wheel  him  to  his 
hnlgiiigs. 

lie  sat  with  him  there  an  hour ;  and  tlien  entered  Mark's 
h(niae  again  witli  his  usual  composed  face,  to  find  Mark  and 
Mary  sitting  up  in  great  anxiet}'. 

"  Mr.  Arms  worth,  does  the  telegraph  work  at  this  time  of 
night?" 

"  I  '11  make  it,  if  it  is  wanted.     But  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"You  will  indeed  ?" 

"  'Gad,  I  '11  go  myself  and  kick  up  the  station-master. 
Wliat's  the  matter?" 

"  That  il'poor  Mrs.  Vavasour  wishes  to  see  her  husband 
alive,  she  must  be  here  in  four-and-twenty  hours.  I  '11  tell- 
you  all  presently  —  " 

"  Mary,  my  coat  and  comforter!  "  cries  Mark,  jumping 
up. 

"  And,  Mary,  a  pen  and  ink,  to  write  the  message,"  says 
Tom. 

"  0  I  cannot  I  be  of  any  use  ?  "  says  Mary. 

"  No,  you  angel !  " 

"You  must  not  call  mo  an  angel,  Mr.  Thurnall.  After 
all,  what  can  I  do  which  you  have  not  done  already  ?  " 

Tom  started.  Grace  had  once  used  to  him  the  very  same 
words.  By  the  by,  what  was  it  in  the  two  women  which 
made  them  so  like  ?  Certainly,  neither  face  nor  fortune. 
Something  in  the  tones  of  their  voices. 

"  Ah  !  if  Grace  had  Mary's  fortune,  or  Mary  Grace's 
face  !  "  thought  Tom,  as  he  hurried  back  to  Elsley,  and 
Mark  rushed  down  to  the  station. 

Elsley  was  conscious  when  he  returned,  and  only  too  con- 
scious. All  night  he  screamed  in  agonies  of  rheumatic  fever; 
by  the  next  afternoon  he  was  failing  fast ;  his  heart  was 
affected  ;    and  Tom  knew  that  he  might  die  any  hour. 

The  evening  train  brings  two  ladies,  Valencia  and  Lucia 
At  the  risk  of  her  life,  the  poor,  faithful  wif(»  lias  come. 

A  gentleman's  carriage  is  waiting  for  them,  tlsough  they 
have  ordered  none  ;  and  as  they  go  through  the  station-room 
a  plain  litth',  well-dressed  body  comes  humbly  up  to  them, — 

"  Are  either  (if  these  ladies  iNlrs.  Vavasour?" 

"  Yes  !  1  !  —  I  !  —  is  he  alive  ?  "  gasps  Lucia. 

"Alive,  and  better!  and  expecting  you  —  " 

"Better?  —  expecting  me?"  almost  shrieks  she,  as  Var 


THE    BANKER    AND    HIS    DAUGHTER,  477 

lencia  and  Mary  (for  it  is  she)  help  her  to  the  carriage. 
Mary  puts  them  in  and  turns  away. 

"  Are  you  not  coming  too  ?  "  asks  Valencia,  who  is  puz- 
zled. 

"No,  thank  you  madam;  I  am  going  to  take  a  walk, 
John,  you  know  where  to  drive  these  ladies." 

Little  Mary  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  say  that  she, 
with  her  father's  carriage,  has  been  down  to  two  other  after- 
noon trains,  upon  the  chance  of  finding  them. 

But  why  is  not  Frank  Headley  with  them,  when  he  is 
needed  most  ?  And  why  are  Valencia's  eyes  more  red  with 
weeping  than  even  her  sister's  sorrow  need  have  made 
them  ? 

Because  Frank  Headley  is  rolling  along  in  a  French  rail- 
way, on  his  road  to  Marseilles,  and  to  what  Heaven  shaP 
find  for  him  to  do. 

Yes,  he  is  gone  Eastward  Ho  among  the  many  ;  will  he 
come  Westward  Ho  again,  among  the  few  ? 

They  are  at  the  door  of  Elsley's  lodgings  now.  Tom 
Thurnall  meets  them  there,  and  bows  them  up  stairs  silently. 
Lucia  is  so  weak  that  she  has  to  cling  to  the  banister  a 
moment ;  and  then,  with  a  strong  shudder,  the  spirit  con- 
quers the  flesh,  and  she  hurries  up  before  them  both. 

It  is  a  small  low  room  —  Valencia  had  expected  that ;  but 
she  had  expected,  too,  confusion  and  wretchedness  ;  for  a 
note  from  Major  Campbell,  ere  he  started,  had  told  her  of 
the  condition  in  which  Elsley  had  been  found.  Instead,  she 
finds  neatness  —  even  gayety  ;  fresh  damask  linen,  comfort- 
able furniture,  a  vase  of  hothouse  flowers,  while  the  air  is 
full  of  cool  perfumes.  No  one  is  likely  to  tell  her  that  Mary 
has  furnished  all  at  Tom's  hint  —  "We  must  smarten  up 
the  place,  for  the  poor  wife's  sake.  It  will  take  something 
off  the  shock  ;  and  I  want  to  avoid  shocks  for  her." 

So  Tom  had  worked  with  his  hands  that  morning,  arrang- 
ing the  room  as  carefully  as  any  woman,  with  that  true  doc- 
tor's forethought  and  consideration,  which  often  issues  in  the 
loftiest,  because  the  most  unconscious,  benevolence. 

He  paused  at  the  door, 

"  Will  you  go  in  ?  "  whispered  he  to  Valencia  in  a  tone 
which  meant —  "you  had  better  not," 

"  Not  yet  —  I  dare  say  he  is  too  weak." 

Lucia  darted  in,  and  Tom  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and 
waited  at  the  stair-head.  "  Better,"  thought  he,  "  to  lei 
two  poor  creatures  settle  their  own  concerns.  It  must  end 
Boon  in  any  case." 


478        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

Lucia  rushed  to  the  bedside,  drew  back  the  curtains,  — 

"  Tom  !  "  moaned  Elsley. 

"Not  Tom,  — Lucia!" 

"  Lucia  ?  —  Lucia  St.  Just  ?  "  answered  he,  in  a  low,  ab 
Btracted  voice,  as  if  trying  to  recollect. 

"  Lucia  Vavasour  !  — your  Lucia  1  " 

Elsley  slowly  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and  looked 
into  her  face  with  a  sad,  inquiring  gaze. 

"  Elsley  —  darling  Elsley  !  —  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  very  well  indeed;  better  tluin  you  know  me.  I 
am  not  Vavasour  at  all.  My  name  is  Briggs  —  John 
Briggs,  the  apothecary's  son,  come  home  to  Whitbury  to 
die  !  " 

She  did  not  hear,  or  did  not  care  for,  those  last  words. 

"  Elsley,  I  am  your  wife  1  — your  own  wife  !  —  who  never 
loved  any  one  but  you  —  never,  never,  never  1  " 

"Yes,  my  wife,  at  least !  Curse  them,  that  they  cannot 
deny  I  "  said  he,  in  the  same  abstracted  voice. 

"  0,  God  !  is  he  mad  ?  "  thought  she.  "  Elsley,  speak  to 
me  I     I  am  your  Lucia  —  your  love  —  " 

And  she  tore  oft"  her  bonnet,  and  threw  herself  beside  him 
on  the  bed,  and  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  murmuring,  — 
"  Your  wife  !  who  never  loved  any  one  but  you  !  " 

Slowly  his  frozen  heart  and  frozen  brain  melted  beneath 
the  warmth  of  her  great  love  ;  but  he  did  not  speak  ;  only 
he  passed  his  weak  arm  round  her  neck  ;  and  she  felt  that 
his  cheek  was  wet  with  tears,  while  she  murmured  on,  like 
a  cooing  dove,  the  same  sweet  words  again,  — 

''  Call  me  your  love  once  more,  and  1  shall  know  that  all 
is  past." 

"Then  call  me  no  more  Elsley,  love!"  whispered  ho. 
"  Call  me  John  Briggs,  and  let  us  have  done  with  shams 
forever  " 

"  No  ;  you  are  my  Elsley  —  my  Vavasour  !  and  I  am  your 
wife  once  more  !  "  and  the  poor  thing  fondled  his  head  as  it 
lay  upon  the  pillow.  "  My  own  Elsley,  to  whom  1  gave 
myself,  body  and  soul  ;  Ibr  whom  1  would  die  now,  —  0, 
such  a  death  !  —  any  death  1  " 

"  How  could  I  doubt  you  ?  —  fool  that  I  was  !  " 

"  No,  it  was  all  my  fault.  It  was  all  my  odious  temper  1 
But  we  will  be  happy  now,  will  we  not  ?  " 

Elsley  smiled  sadly,  and  began  babbling, — Yes,  they  would 
take  a  farm,  and  he  would  plough,  and  sow,  and  be  of  some 
use  before  he  died.  "  But  promise  me  one  thing!"  cried 
he,  with  sudden  strength. 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.        479 

"  What  ?  " 

"  That  you  -will  go  home,  and  burn  all  the  poetry,  all  the 
manuscripts,  and  never  let  the  children  write  a  verse  —  a 
verse  when  I  am  dead  !  "  And  his  head  sank  back,  and  his 
jiiW  dropped. 

'  He  is  dead  !  "  cried  the  poor  impulsive  cieature,  with  a 
shriek  which  brought  in  Tom  and  Valencia. 

"He  is  not  dead,  madam  ;  but  you  must  be  very  gentle 
with  him,  if  we  are  to  —  " 

Tom  saw  that  there  was  little  hope. 

"I  will  do  anything,  —  only  save  him  !  —  save  him,  Mr. 
Thurnall,  till  I  have  atoned  for  all  !  " 

"  You  have  little  enough  to  atone  for,  madam,"  said  Tom, 
as  he  busied  himself  about  the  sufferer.  He  saw  that  all 
would  soon  be  over,  and  would  have  had  Mrs.  Vavasour 
withdraw ;  but  she  was  so  really  good  a  nurse,  as  long  as 
she  could  control  herself,  that  he  could  hardl}''  spare  her. 

So  they  sat  together  by  the  sick  bed-side,  as  the  short 
hours  passed  into  the  long,  and  the  long  hours  into  the  short 
again,  and  the  October  dawn  began  to  shine  through  the 
shutterless  window. 

A  weary,  eventless  night  it  was,  a  night  as  of  many  years, 
as  worse  and  worse  grew  the  weak  frame  ;  and  Tom  looked 
alternately  at  the  heaving  chest,  and  shortening  breath,  and 
rattling  throat,  and  then  at  the  pale  still  face  of  the  lady. 

"  Better  she  should  sit  by  (thought  he)  and  watch  him  till 
she  is  tired  out.  It  will  come  on  her  the  more  gently,  after 
all.     He  will  die  at  sunrise,  as  so  many  die." 

At  last  he  began  gently  feeling  for  Elsley's  pulse.  H^er 
eye  caught  his  movement,  and  she  half  sprang  up  ;  but  a^  a 
gesture  from  him  she  sank  quietly  on  her  knees,  holding  he; 
husband's  hand  in  her  own. 

Elsley  turned  toward  her  once,  ere  the  film  of  death  had 
fallen,  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  with  his  beautiful  eyes 
full  of  love.  Then  the  ej^es  paled  and  faded  ;  but  still  they 
sought  for  her  painfully  long  after  she  had  buried  her  head 
in  the  coverlet,  unable  to  bear  the  sight. 

And  so  vanished  away  Elsley  Vavasour,  poet  and  genius, 
into  his  own  place. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  said  a  deep  voice  from  behind  the  curtain  ; 
it  was  Mark  Armsworth's.  He  had  come  over  with  the  first 
dawn  to  bring  tho  ladies  food  ;  had  slipped  up  stairs  to  ask 
^^hat  news,  found  the  door  open,  and  entered  in  time  to  see 
Ike  hist  gasp. 

Lucia  kept  her  head  still  buried ;  and  Tom,  for  the  first 


480        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

time  for  many  a  year,  knelt,  as  the  old  banker  commended 
to  God  the  soul  of  our  dear  brother  just  departing-  this  life. 
Then  Mark  glided  quietly  down  stairs,  and  Valencia,  rising, 
tried  to  lead  Mrs.  Vavasour  away. 

But  then  broke  out  in  all  its  wild  passion  the  Irish  ivm- 
perament.  Let  us  pass  it  over; — why  try  to  earn  a  little 
credit  by  depicting  the  agony  and  the  weakness  of  a 
Meter  ? 

At  last  Thurnall  got  her  down  stairs.  Mark  was  there 
still,  having  sent  off  for  his  carriage.  lie  quietly  put  her 
arm  through  his,  led  her  off,  worn  out  and  unresisting,  drove 
her  home,  delivered  her  and  Valencia  into  Mary's  keeping, 
and  then  asked  Tom  to  stay  and  sit  with  him. 

"I  hope  I  've  no  very  bad  conscience,  bo}' ;  but  Mary's 
busy  with  the  poor  young  thing,  —  mere  child  she  is,  tor, 
to  go  through  such  a  night ;  and,  somehow,  I  don't  like  to 
be  left  alone,  after  such  a  sight  as  that !  " 

"  Tom  !  "  said  Mark,  as  they  sat  smoking  in  silence,  after 
breakfast,  in  the  study.     "  Tom  !  " 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"That  was  an  awful  death-bed,  Tom  !  " 

Tom  was  silent. 

"1  don't  mean  that  he  died  hard,  as  we  say ;  but  so 
young,  Tom.  And  1  suppose  poets'  souls  are  worth  some- 
thing, like  other  people's  —  perhaps  more.  I  can't  under- 
stand 'em  ;  but  my  Mary  seems  to,  and  people  like  her,  who 
think  a  poet  the  finest  thing  in  the  world.  1  laugh  at  it  all 
when  I  am  jolly,  and  call  it  sentiment  and  cant ;  but  I  be- 
lieve that  they  are  nearer  heaven  than  I  am  ;  though  I  think 
they  don't  quite  know  where  heaven  is,  nor  where"  (with 
a  wicked  wink,  in  spite  of  the  sadness  of  his  tone)  —  "where 
they  themselves  are  either." 

"  I '11  tell  you,  sir.  I  have  seen  men  enough  die,  —  we 
doctors  are  hardened  to  it ;  but  I  have  seen  unprofessional 
deaths,  —  men  we  didn't  kill  ourselves;  I  have  seen  men 
drowned,  shot,  hanged,  run  over,  and  worse  deaths  than 
that,  sir,  too  ;  and,  somehow,  I  never  felt  any  death  like 
that  man's.  Granted,  he  began  by  trying  to  set  the  world 
right,  when  he  had  n't  yet  set  himself  right ;  but  wasn't  it 
eome  credit  to  see  that  the  world  was  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that.     The  world's  a  very  good  world." 

"To  you  and  me;  but  there  are  men  who  have  higher 
notions  than  I  of  what  this  world  ought  to  he  ;  and,  for 
aught  I  know,  they  are  right.    That  Aberalva  curat(!,  Head- 


THE  BANKER   AIVD    HIS    DAUGHTER.  4S1 

ley,  had ;  and  so  had  Briggs,  in  his  own  way.  I  thought 
him  once  only  a  poor  discontented  devil,  who  quarrelled 
with  his  bread  and  butter  because  he  had  n't  teeth  to  eat  it 
with  ;  but  there  was  more  in  the  fellow,  coxcomb  as  he  was. 
'T  is  n't  often  that  I  let  that  croaking  old  bogy.  Madam 
Might-have-been,  trouble  me  ;  but  I  cannot  help  thinkiug 
that  if,  fifteen  years  ago,  I  had  listened  to  his  vaporiiigs 
more,  and  bullied  him  about  them  less,  he  might  have  been 
here  still." 

"  You  would  n't  have  been,  then.  Well  for  you  that  you 
did  n't  catch  his  fever." 

"  And  write  verses  too  ?  Don't  make  me  laugh,  sir,  on 
8uch  a  day  as  this.  I  always  comfort  myself  with  —  'it 's 
DO  business  of  mine  ; '  but,  somehow,  I  can't  do  so  just 
now."  And  Tom  sat  silent,  more  softened  than  he  had 
been  for  years. 

"  Let 's  talk  of  something  else,"  said  Mark  at  last.  "  You 
had  the  cholera  very  bad  down  there,  I  hear  ?  " 

"  0,  sharp,  but  short,"  said  Tom,  who  disliked  any  subject 
which  brought  Grace  to  his  mind. 

"  Any  on  my  lord's  estate  with  the  queer  name  ?  " 

"  Not  a  case.  We  stopped  the  devil  out  there,  thanks  to 
his  lordship." 

"So  did  we  here.  We  were  very  near  in  for  it,  though, 
I  fancy.  At  least,  I  chose  to  fancy  so,  —  thought  it  a  good 
opportunity  to  clean  Whitbury  once  for  all." 

"  It 's  just  like  you.     Well  ? " 

"  Well,  I  offered  the  town-council  to  drain  the  whole  town 
at  my  own  expense,  if  they  'd  let  me  have  the  sewage.  And 
that  only  made  things  worse  ;  for  as  soon  as  the  beggars 
found  out  the  sewage  was  worth  anything,  they  were  down 
on  me,  as  if  I  wanted  to  do  them  —  I,  Mark  Armsworth  !  — 
and  would  sooner  let  half  the  town  rot  with  an  epidemic, 
than  have  reason  to  fancy  I'd  made  any  money  out  of  them. 
So  a  pretty  fight  I  had,  for  half  a  dozen  meetings,  till  I  called 
in  my  lord  ;  and,  sir,  he  came  down  by  the  next  express, 
like  a  trump,  all  the  way  from  town,  and  gave  them  such  a 
piece  of  his  mind,  —  was  going  to  have  the  board  of  health 
down,  and  turn  on  the  government  tap,  commissioners  and 
all,  and  cost  'em  hundreds  :  till  the  fellows  shook  in  their 
leihoes.  And  so  I  conquered,  and  here  we  are,  as  clean  as  a 
nut,  —  and  a  fig  for  the  cholera  !  —  except  down  in  Wator 
Lane,  which  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  ;  for,  if  trades- 
men will  run  up  houses  on  spec  in  a  water-meadow,  who 
can  stop  them  ?  There  ought  to  be  a  law  for  it,  say  I ;  bu^ 
41 


482  THE   BANKER    AND    HIS    DAUGHTER. 

I  say  a  good  many  things  in  the  twelve  months  that  nobody 
minds.  But,  my  dear  boy,  if  one  man  in  a  town  has  pluck 
and  money,  he  may  do  it.  It  '11  cost  him  a  few  ;  I  've  had 
to  pay  the  main  part  myself,  after  all  ;  but  I  suppose  God 
wall  make  it  up  to  a  man  somehow.  That 's  old  Mark's 
faith,  at  least.  Now  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  myself. 
JNIy  lord  comes  into  town  to-day,  and  you  must  see  him." 

"  Why,  then  ?  He  can't  help  me  with  the  Bashi-bazouks, 
can  he  ?  " 

"  Bashi-fiddles  !  I  say,  Tom,  the  more  I  think  over  it  the 
more  it  won't  do.  It's  throwing  yourself  away.  They  say 
that  Turkish  contingent  is  getting  on  terribly  ill." 

"  More  need  of  me  to  make  them  well." 

"  Hang  it  —  I  mean  —  has  n't  justice  done  it,  and  so  on. 
The  papers  are  full  of  it." 

"  Well,"  quoth  Tom,  "  and  why  should  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  man  alive,  if  England  spends  all  this  money  on 
the  men/-  she  ought  to  do  her  duty  by  them." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  As  Pecksnilf  says,  '  If  England  expects 
every  man  to  do  his  duty,  she  's  very  sanguine,  and  will  b« 
much  disappointed.'  They  don't  intend  to  do  their  duty  by 
her,  any  more  than  1  do  ;  so  why  should  she  do  her  duty  by 
them  ?  " 

"  Don't  intend  to  do  your  duty  ?  " 

"I'm  going  out  because  England's  money  is  necessary 
to  me ;  and  England  hires  me  because  my  skill  is  necessary 
to  her.  I  did  n't  think  of  duty  when  I  settled  to  go,  and 
why  should  she  ?  I  '11  get  all  out  of  her  I  can  in  the  way 
of  pay  and  practice,  and  she  may  get  all  she  can  out  of  me 
in  the  way  of  work.  As  for  being  ill-used,  I  never  expect 
to  be  anything  else  in  this  life.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  care ;  and 
1  'm  sure  she  don't.  So  live  and  let  live  ;  talk  plain  truth, 
and  leave  Bunkum  for  right  honorables  who  keep  their  places 
thereby.     Give  me  another  weed." 

"  Queer  old  philosopher  you  are  ;  but,  go  you  shan't !  " 

"Go  I  will,  sir  ;  don't  stop  me.  I  've  my  reasons,  and 
they  're  good  ones  enough." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  servant ;  —  Lord 
Minchampstoad  was  waiting  at  Mr.  Armsworth's  office. 

"Early  bi'-d,  his  lordship,  and  gets  the  worm  accord- 
ingly," says  Mark,  as  he  hurries  off  to  attend  to  his  ideal 
hero.     "  You  come  over  to  the  shop  in  half  an  hour,  mind." 

"But  why  ?" 

"  Confound  you,  sir  !  you  talk  of  having  your  reasons  ;  J 
have  mine  I " 


THE   BANKEIl   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER.  483 

Mark  looked  quite  cross  ;  so  Tom  gave  way,  and  Avent  in 
due  time  to  the  bank. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  in  Mark's  inner  room, 
he  saw  the  okl  cutton-prince. 

"  And  a  prince  he  looks  like,"  quoth  Tom,  to  himself,  as 
he  v;^aited  in  the  bank  outside,  and  looked  through  tlie  glass 
screen.  "  How  well  the  old  man  wears  !  I  wonder  how 
many  fresh  thousands  he  has  made  since  I  saw  him  last, 
seven  years  ago." 

And  a  very  noble  person  Lord  Minchampstead  did  look  ; 
one  to  whom  hats  went  off  almost  without  their  owners' 
will ;  tall  and  portly,  with  a  soldier-like  air  of  dignity  and 
command,  which  was  relieved  by  the  good-nature  of  the 
countenance.  Yet  it  was  a  good-nature  which  would  stand 
no  trifling.  The  jaw  was  deep  and  broad,  though  finely 
shaped  ;  the  mouth  firm  set ;  the  nose  slightly  aquiline  ; 
the  brow  of  great  depth  and  height,  though  narrow  ;  — 
altogether  a  Julius  Caesar's  type  of  head  :  that  of  a  man 
born  to  rule  self,  and,  therefore,  to  rule  all  he  met. 

Tom  looked  over  his  dress,  not  forgetting,  like  a  true 
Englishman,  to  mark  what  sort  of  boots  he  wore.  They 
were  boots  not  quite  fashionable,  but  carefully  cleaned  on 
trees  ;  trousers  strapped  tightly  over  them,  which  had 
adopted  the  military  stripe,  but  retained  the  slit  at  tlie 
ankle  which  was  in  vogue  forty  years  ago  ;  frock-coat  with 
a  velvet  collar,  buttoned  up,  but  not  too  far  ;  high  and 
tight  blue  cravat  below  an  immense  shirt-collar  ;  a  certain 
care  and  richness  of  dress  throughout,  but  soberly  behind 
the  fashion  ;  while  the  hat  was  a  very  shabby  and  broken 
one,  and  the  whip  still  more  shabby  and  broken  ;  all  which 
indicated  to  Tom  that  his  lordship  let  his  tailor  and  his  valet 
dress  him,  and,  though  not  unaware  that  it  behoved  him  to 
Bet  3ut  his  person  as  it  deserved,  was  far  too  fine  a  gentle- 
man to  trouble  himself  about  looking  fine. 

Mark  looks  round,  sees  Tom,  and  calls  him  in. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall,  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  sir.  You  did  me 
good  service  at  Pentremochyn,  and  did  it  cheaply.  I  was 
agreeably  surprised,  I  confess,  at  receiving  a  bill  for  lour 
pounds  seven  and  sixpence,  where  I  expected  one  of  twenty 
or  thirty." 

"  I  charged  according  to  what  my  time  was  really  worth 
there,  my  lord.     I  heartily  wish  it  had  been  worth  more." 

"  No  doubt,"  says  my  lord,  in  the  blandest,  but  the  dries! 
tone. 

Some  men  would  have,  under  a  sense  of  Tom's  merits 


484  THE    BANKER    AND    HIS   DAUGHTER. 

Bcnt  him  a  check  off-hand  for  five-and-twonty  pounds  ;  but 
that  is  not  Lord  Minchampstead's  way  of  doing  business. 
He  had  paid  simply  the  sum  asked  ;  but  lie  had  set  Tom 
down  in  his  memory  as  a  man  whom  he  could  trust  to  do 
good  work,  and  to  do  it  cheaply  ;  and  now,  — 

"You  are  going  to  join  the  Turkish  contingent  ?" 

"lam." 

"  You  know  that  part  of  the  world  well,  I  believe  ?  " 

"Intimately." 

"  And  the  languages  spoken  there  ?  " 

"  By  no  means  all.  Russian  and  Tartar  well  ;  Turkish 
tolerably  ;  with  a  snuittering  of  two  or  three  Circassian 
dialects." 

"  Humph  !     A  fair  list.     Any  Persian  ?  " 

"  Only  a  very  few  words." 

"  Ilumph  !  If  you  can  learn  one  language,  I  presume 
you  can  learn  another.  Now,  Mr.  Thurnall,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  you  will  do  your  duty  in  the  Turkish  contin- 
gent." 

Tom  bowed. 

"  But  I  must  ask  you  if  your  resolution  to  join  it  is  fixed  ? " 

"I  only  join  it  because  I  can  get  no  other  employment 
at  the  seat  of  war." 

"  Humph  1  You  wish  to  go  then,  in  any  case,  to  the 
Beat  of  war  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  No  doubt  you  have  sufficient  reasons.  .  .  .  Armsworth, 
this  puts  the  question  in  a  new  light." 

Tom  looked  round  at  Mark,  and,  behold,  his  face  bore 
a  ludicrous  mixture  of  anger,  and  disappointment,  and 
perplexity.  lEe  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  signals  to 
Tom,  and  to  be  afraid  of  doing  so  openly  before  the  great 
man. 

"  He  is  as  wilful  and  foolish  as  a  girl,  my  lord  ;  and  I  've 
told  him  so." 

"  Everybody  knows  his  own  business  best,  Armsworth. 
Mr.  Thurnall,  have  you  any  fancy  for  the  post  of  Queen's 
messenger  ?  " 

"  I  should  esteem  rnyself  only  too  happy  as  one." 

"They  are  not  to  be  obtained  now  as  easily  as  they 
were  fifty  years  ago,  and  are  given,  as  you  may  know,  to  a 
far  higher  class  of  men  than  they  were  formerly.  But  I 
shall  do  my  best  to  obtain  you  one,  when  an  opportunity 
offers." 

Tom  was  beginning  profusest  thanks  ;  for  was  not  hi« 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.        485 

fortum;  made  ?  but  Lord  Mincharnpstead  stopped  nim  with 
an  uplilted  finger. 

"And,  meanwhile,  there  are  foreig-n  employments,  of 
which  neither  those  who  bestow  them,  nor  those  who  accept 
them,  are  expected  to  talk  much,  but  for  which  you,  if  I  am 
rightly  informed,  would  be  especially  fitted.'' 

Tom  bowed  ;  and  his  face  spoke  a  hundred  assents.  . 

"  Very  well ;  if  j^ou  will  come  over  to  Minchampstead 
to-morrow,  I  will  give  you  letters  to  friends  of  mine  in 
'town.  I  trust  that  they  may  give  you  a  better  opportunity 
than  the  Bashi-bazouks  will,  of  displaying  that  courage, 
address,  and  self-command,  which,  1  understand,  you  pos- 
sess in  so  unc  >mmon  a  degree.  Good-morning!"  And 
forth  the  great  man  went. 

Most  opposite  were  the  actions  of  the  two  whom  he  had 
left  behind  him. 

Tom  dances  about  the  room,  hurrahing  in  a  whisper, — 

"My  fortune's  made!  The  secret  service!  0,  what 
bliss  !     The  thing  I  've  always  longed  for  !  " 

Mark  dashes  himself  desperately  back  in  his  chair,  and 
shoots  his  angry  legs  straight  out,  almost  tripping  up  Tom. 

"  You  abominable  ass  !  You  have  done  it  with  a  ven- 
geance !  Why,  he  has  been  pumping  me  about  you  this 
month  !  One  word  from  you,  to  say  you  'd  have  stayed, 
and  he  was  going  to  make  you  agent  for  all  his  Cornish 
property." 

"  Don't  he  wish  he  may  get  it  ?  Catch  a  fish  climbing 
trees  !  Catch  me  staying  at  home  when  I  can  serve  my 
Queen  and  my  country,  and  find  a  sphere  for  the  full  devel- 
opment of  my  talents  !  0,  won't  I  be  as  wise  as  a  serpent ! 
Won't  I  be  comphmented  by  *  *  *  himself  as  his  best 
lurcher,  worth  any  ten  needy  Poles,  greedy  Armenians, 
traitors,  renegades,  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  !  1  '11  shave  my 
head  to-morrow,  and  buy  me  an  assortment  of  wigs  of  every 
hue  !  " 

Take  care,  Tom  Thurnall.  After  pride  comes  a  fall  ;  and 
he  who  digs  a  pit  ma}'-  fall  into  it  himself  Has  this  morn- 
ing's death-bed  given  you  no  lesson  that  it  is  as  well  not  to 
cast  ourselves  down  from  where  God  has  put  us,  for  what- 
soever seemingly  fine  ends  of  ours,  lest,  doing  so,  we  tempt 
our  God  once  too  often  ? 

Your  father  quoted  that  text  to  John  Briggs,  here,  many 

years  ago.     Miglit  he  not  quote  it  now  to  you  ?     True,  not 

one  word  of  murmuring,  not  even  of  regret,  or  fear,  has 

passed  his  jjood  old  lips  about  your  self-willed  plan.     He 

4Jt 


486        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

has  such  utter  confidence  in  you,  such  utter  cirelessnesa 

about  himself,  such  utter  faith  in  God,  that  he  can  let  you 

g'o  without  a  sigh.     But  will   you   make    his   courage   an 

excuse   for   your   own   rashness  ?      Again,    beware ;    after 

pride  may  come  a  fall. 

****** 

On  the  fourth  day  Elsley  was  buried.  Mark  and  Tom 
wer6  the  only  mourners  ;  Lucia  and  Valencia  stayed  at 
Mark's  house,  to  return  next  day,  under  Tom's  care,  to 
Eaton  Square. 

The  two  mourners  walked  back  sadly  from  the  church- 
yard. "  I  shall  put  a  stone  over  him,  Tom.  He  ought 
to  rest  quietly  now,  for  he  had  little  rest  enough  in  this 
life 

"  Now,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something  ;  when 
I  've  taken  off  my  hatband,  that  is  ;  for  it  would  be  hardly 
lucky  to  mention  such  matters  with  a  hatband  on." 

Tom  looked  up  wondering. 

"  Tell  me  about  his  wife,  meanwhile.  What  made  him 
marry  her  ?     Was  she  a  pretty  woman  ?  " 

"  Pretty  enough,  I  believe,  before  she  married  ;  but  I 
hardly  think  he  married  her  for  her  face." 

"  Of  course  not !  "  said  the  old  man  with  emphasis  ;  "  of 
course  not !  Whatever  faults  he  had,  he  'd  be  too  sensible 
for  that.     Don't  you  marry  for  a  fiice,  Tom  !     I  did  n't." 

Tom  opened  his  eyes  at  this  last  assertion  ;  but  humbly 
expressed  his  intention  of  not  falling  into  that  snare. 

"  Ah  I  you  don't  believe  me  ;  well,  she  was  a  beautiful 
woman.  I  'd  like  to  see  her  fellow  now  in  the  county  ! — • 
and  I  won't  deny  I  was  proud  of  her.  But  she  had  ten 
thousand  pounds,  Tom.  And  as  for  her  looks,  why,  if 
you  '11  believe  me,  after  we  'd  been  married  three  months,  I 
did  n't  know  whether  she  had  any  looks  or  not.  What  are 
you  smiling  at,  you  young  rogue  ?  " 

"  Report  did  say  that  one  look  of  Mrs.  Armsworth's,  to 
the  last,  would  do  more  to  manage  Mr.  Armsworth  than  the 
opinions  of  the  whole  bench  of  bishops." 

"  Report 's  a  liar,  and  you  're  a  puppy  I  You  don't  know 
yet  whether  it  was  a  pleasant  look,  or  a  cross  one,  lad.  But 
still  —  well,  she  was  an  angel,  and  kept  old  Mark  straightor 
than  he  's  ever  been  since  ;  not  that  ho  's  so  very  bad,  now. 
Though  I  sometimes  think  Mary  's  better  even  than  her 
mother.     That  girl's  a  good  girl,  Tom." 

"  Report  agrees  with  you  in  that,  at  least." 

"  Fool  if  it  didn't.     And  as  for  looks  —  I  can  speak  to 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.        4S7 

you  as  to  my  own  son  —  why,  handsome  is  that  handsome 
does." 

"And  that  handsome  has;  for  you  must  honestly  put 
that  into  the  account." 

"  You  think  so  ?  So  do  I !  Well,  then,  Tom,"  —  and  here 
Mark  was  seized  with  a  tendency  to  St.  Vitus's  dance,  and 
began  overhauling  every  button  on  his  coat,  twitching  up 
his  black  gloves,  till  (as  undertakers'  gloves  are  generally 
meant  to  do)  they  burst  in  half  a  dozen  places  ;  taking  oif 
his  hat,  wiping  his  head  fiercely,  and  putting  the  hat  on 
again  behind  before ;  till  at  last  he  snatched  his  arm  from 
Tom's,  and,  griping  him  by  the  shoulder,  recommenced,  — 
"  You  think  so,  eh  ?  Well,  I  must  say  it,  so  I  'd  better 
have  it  out  now,  hatband  or  none  !  What  do  you  think  of 
the  man  who  married  my  daughter,  face  and  all  ?  " 

"  I  should  think,"  quoth  Tom,  wondering  who  the  happy 
man  could  be,  "  that  he  would  be  so  lucky  in  possessing 
Buch  a  heart,  that  he  would  be  a  fool  to  care  about  the 
face." 

"  Then  be  as  good  as  your  word,  and  take  her  yourself. 
I  've  watched  you  this  last  week,  and  you  '11  make  her  a 
good  husband.  There,  I  have  spoken  ;  let  me  hear  no  more 
about  it." 

And  Mark  half  pushed  Tom  from  him,  and  puffed  on  by 
his  side,  highly  excited. 

If  Mark  had  knocked  the  young  doctor  down,  he  would 
have  been  far  less  astonished,  and  far  less  puzzled  too. 
"  Well,"  thought  he,  "  I  fancied  nothing  could  throw  my 
steady  old  engine  oif  the  rails  ;  but  I  am  off  them  now,  with 
a  vengeance."     What  to  say  he  knew  not ;  at  last,  — • 

"It  is  just  like  your  generosity,  sir ;  you  have  been  a 
brother  to  my  father  ;  and  now  —  " 

"  And  now  I  '11  be  a  father  to  you  !  Old  Mark  does  noth- 
ing by  halves." 

"  But,  sir,  however  lucky  I  should  be  in  possessing  Miss 
Armsworth's  heart,  what  reason  have  I  to  suppose  that  I  do 
60  ?  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  her.  I  need  n't  say  that  she 
never  did  to  me  —  which  —  " 

"  Of  course  she  did  n't,  and  of  course  you  did  n't.  Should 
like  to  have  seen  you  making  love  to  my  daughter,  indeed  ! 
No,  sir,  it 's  my  will  and  pleasure.  I  've  settled  it,  and 
done  it  shall  be  !  I  shall  go  home  and  tell  Mary,  and  she  '1] 
obey  me  —  I  should  like  to  see  her  do  anything  else  !  Iloity 
toity,  fathers  must  be  masters,  sir !  even  in  these  %-away 
new  times,  when  young  ones  choose  their  own  husbands. 


188  THE   BANKER   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER. 

and  their  own  politics,  and  their  own  hounds,  and  their  own 
rulig-ion  too,  and  be  hanged  to  them  !  " 

AVliat  did  this  unaccustomed  bit  of  bluster  mean  ?  for 
unaccustomed  it  was  ;  and  Tom  knew  well  that  Mary  Arms- 
worth  had  her  own  way,  and  managed  her  father  as  com- 
pletely as  he  managed  Whit  bury. 

"  Humph  !  It  is  impossible  ;  and  yet  it  must  be.  This 
explains  his  being  so  anxious  that  Lord  Minchampstead 
should  approve  of  me.  1  have  I'ouiid  favor  in  the  poor  dear 
thing's  eyes,  I  suppose  ;  and  the  good  old  fellow  knows  it, 
and  won't  betray  her,  and  so  shams  tyrant.  Just  like  him  !  " 
But  —  that  Mary  Armsworth  should  care  for  him!  Vain 
fellow  that  he  was  to  fancy  it !  And  yet,  when  he  began  to 
put  things  together,  little  silences,  little  looks,  little  noth- 
ings, which  all  together  might  make  something.  He  would 
not  slander  her  to  himself  by  supposing  that  her  attentions 
to  his  father  were  paid  for  his  sake  ;  but  he  could  not  forget 
that  it  was  she,  always,  who  read  his  letters  aloud  to  the 
old  man  ;  or  that  she  had  taken  home  and  copied  out  the 
story  of  his  shipwreck.  Beside,  it  was  the  only  method  of 
explaining  Mark's  conduct,  save  on  the  supposition  that  he 
had  suddenly  been  "  changed  by  the  fairies  "  in  his  old 
age,  instead  of  in  the  cradle,  as  usual. 

It  was  a  terrible  temptation  ;  and  to  no  man  more  than 
to  Thomas  Thurnall.  He  was  no  boy,  to  hanker  after  mere 
animal  beauty ;  he  had  no  delicate  visions  or  lofty  aspira- 
tions ;  and  he  knew  (no  man  better)  the  plain  English  of 
fifty  thousand  pounds,  and  Mark  Armsworth's  daughter  — 
agood  house,  a  good  consulting  practice  (for  he  would  take 
his  M.D.  of  course),  a  good  station  in  the  county,  a  good 
clarence  with  a  good  pair  of  horses,  good  plate,  a  good  din- 
ner with  good  company  thereat :  and,  over  and  above  all, 
his  father  to  live  with  him,  and  with  Mary,  whom  he  loved 
as  a  daughter,  in  luxury  and  peace  to  his  life's  end.  Why, 
it  was  all  that  he  had  ever  dreamed  of,  three  times  more 
than  he  ever  hoped  to  gain  !  Not  to  mention  (for  how  oddly 
little  dreams  of  selfish  pleasure  slip  in  at  such  moments  !)  — ■ 
that  he  would  buy  such  a  Ross's  microscope  !  and  keep 
such  a  horse  for  a  sly  by-day  with  the  Whitford  Priors!  0, 
to  see  once  again  a  fox  break  from  Coldharbor  gorse  ! 

And  then  rose  up  before  his  imagination  those  drooping, 
steadfast  eyes ;  and  Grace  Harvey,  the  suspected,  the 
despised,  seemed  to  look  through  and  through  his  inmost 
Boul,  as  through  a  home  which  belonged  of  .right  to  her, 
and  where  no  other  woman  must  dwell,  or  could  dwell ;  for 


THE   BANKER   AND   HI3   DA.UGHTER.  489 

she  was  there  ;  and  he  knew  it ;  and  knew  that,  even  if 
he  never  married  till  his  dying  day,  he  should  sell  his  soul 
by  marrying  any  one  but  her.  "  And  why  should  I  not  sell 
my  soul  ?  "  asked  he,  almost  fiercely.  "  I  sell  my  talents, 
my  time,  my  strength  ;  I  'd  sell  my  life  to-morrow,  and  go 
to  be  shot  for  a  shilling  a  day,  if  it  would  make  the  old  man 
comfortable  for  life  ;  and  why  not  my  soul  too  ?  Don't  that 
belong  to  me  as  much  as  any  other  part  of  me  ?  Why  am 
I  to  be  condemned  to  sacrifice  my  prospects  in  life  to  a  girl 
of  whose  honesty  I  am  not  even  sure  ?  What  is  this  intol- 
erable fascination  ?  Witch  !  I  almost  believe  in  mesmer- 
ism, now  !  Again,  I  say,  why  should  I  not  sell  my  soul,  as 
I  'd  sell  my  coat,  if  the  bargain  's  but  a  good  one  ?  " 

And  if  he  did,  who  would  ever  know  ?  Not  even  Grace 
herself  The  secret  was  his,  and  no  one  else's.  Or  if 
they  did  know,  what  matter  ?  Dozens  of  men  sell  their 
souls  every  year,  and  thrive  thereon  ;  tradesmen,  lawyers, 
squires,  popular  preachers,  great  noblemen,  kings  and 
princes.  He  would  be  in  good  company,  at  all  events  ; 
and,  while  so  many  live  in  glass  houses,  who  dare  throw 
stones  ? 

But,  then,  curiously  enough,  there  came  over  him  a  vague 
dread  of  possible  evil,  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  He 
had  been  trying  for  years  to  raise  himself  above  the  power 
of  fortune;  and  he  had  succeeded  ill  enough;  but  he  had 
never  lost  heai't.  Robbed,  shipwrecked,  lost  in  deserts, 
cheated  at  cards,  shot  in  revolutions,  begging  his  bread,  he 
had  always  been  the  same  unconquerable,  light-hearted  Tom, 
whose  motto  was,  "Fall  light,  and  don't  whimper;  better 
luck  next  round."  But  now,  what  if  he  played  his  last 
court-card,  and  Fortune,  out  of  her  close-hidden  hand,  laid 
down  a  trump  thereon  with  quiet  sneering  smile  ?  And  she 
would !  He  knew,  somehow,  that  he  should  not  thrive. 
His  children  would  die  of  the  measles,  his  horses  break 
their  knees,  his  plate  be  stolen,  his  house  catch  fire,  and 
Mark  Arms  worth  die  insolvent !  What  a  fool  he  was,  to 
fancy  such  nonsense  !  Here  he  had  been  slaving  all  his 
life  to  keep  his  father  ;  —  and  now  he  could  keep  him  ;  why, 
he  would  be  justified,  right,  a  good  son,  in  doing  the  thing. 
How  hard,  how  unjust  of  those  upper  Powers  in  which  he 
believed  so  vaguely,  to  forbid  his  doing  it ! 

And  how  did  he  know  that  they  forbid  him  ?  That  is  too 
deep  a  question  to  be  analyzed  here  ;  but  this  thing  is  note- 
worthy, that  there  came  next  over  Tom's  mind  a  stranger 
feeling  still  —  a  fancy  that  if  he  did  this  thing,  and  sold  hia 


490        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

80ul,  he  could  not  answer  for  himself  thenceforth  on  the 
score  of  merest  respectability  ;  could  not  answer  for  him- 
self not  to  drink,  gamble,  squander  his  money,  neglect  his 
father,  prove  unfaithful  to  his  wife  ;  that  the  iiniate  capacity 
for  blackguardism,  which  was  as  strong  in  him  as  in  any 
man,  might,  and  probably  would,  run  utterly  riot  thence- 
forth. He  felt  as  if  he  should  cast  away  his  last  anchor, 
and  drift  helplessly  down  into  utter  shame  and  ruin.  It  may 
have  been  very  fanciful,  but  so  he  felt ;  and  felt  it  so 
strongly  too,  that  in  less  time  than  I  have  taken  to  write  thia 
he  had  turned  to  Mark  Armsworth  : 

"  Sir,  you  are  what  I  have  always  found  you.  Do  you 
wish  me  to  be  what  you  have  always  found  me  ?  " 

"  I  'd  be  sorry  to  see  you  anything  else,  boy." 

"  Then,  sir,  1  can't  do  this.     In  honor,  I  can't." 

"  Are  you  married  already  ?  "  thundered  Mark. 

"  Not  quite  as  bad  as  that ;  "  and,  in  spite  of  his  agita 
tion,  Tom  laughed,  but  hysterically,  at  the  notion.  "  But 
fool  I  am  ;  for  I  am  in  love  with  another  woman.  I  am, 
sir,"  went  he  on,  hurriedly.  "  Boy  that  I  am  !  and  she 
don't  even  know  it ;  but,  if  you  be  the  man  I  take  you  for, 
you  may  be  angry  with  me,  but  you  '11  understand  me. 
Anything  but  be  a  rogue  to  you,  and  to  Mary,  and  to  my 
own  self,  too.     Fool  I  '11  be,  but  rogue  I  won't  I  " 

Mark  strode  on  in  silence,  frightfully  red  in  the  face  for 
full  five  minutes.  Then  he  turned  sharply  on  Tom,  and 
catching  him  by  the  shoulder,  thrust  him  from  him. 

"  There,  —  go  I  and  don't  let  me  see  or  hear  of  you  ;  — 
that  is,  till  I  tell  you  !  Go  along,  I  say  !  Hum-hum  !  "  (in 
a  tone  half  of  wrath,  and  half  of  triumph),  "  his  father's 
child  I     If  you  will  ruin  yourself,  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Nor  I,  sir,"  said  Tom,  in  a  really  piteous  tone,  bemoan- 
ing the  day  he  ever  saw  Aberalva,  as  he  watched  Mark 
stride  into  his  own  gate.  "  If  I  had  but  had  common 
luck !  If  I  had  but  brought  my  fifteen  hundred  pounds 
safe  home  here,  and  never  seen  Grace,  and  married  this 
girl  out  of  hand  1  Common  luck  is  all  I  ask,  and  I  never 
get  it !  " 

And  Tom  went  home  sulkier  than  a  bear  ;  but  he  did  not 
let  his  father  find  out  his  trouble.  It  was  his  last  evening 
with  the  old  man.  To-morrow  he  must  go  to  London,  and 
then  —  to  scramble  and  twist  about  the  world  again  till  he 
died.  Well,  why  not  ?  A  man  must  die  somehow  ;  but  it 's 
hard  on  the  poor  old  father,"  said  Tom. 

As  Tom  was  packhig  his  scanty  carpet-bag  next  morning, 


THE   BANKER   AND   HIS   DAUGHTER.  491 

there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  He  looked  oat,  and  saw 
Armsworth's  clerk.  What  could  that  mean  ?  Had  the  old 
man  determined  to  avenge  the  slight,  and  to  do  so  on  his 
father,  by  claiming  some  old  debt  ?  There  might  be  many 
between  him  and  the  doctor.  And  Tom's  heart  beat  fast,  as 
Jane  put  a  letter  into  his  hand. 

"  No  answer,  sir,  the  clerk  says." 

Tom  opened  it,  and  turned  over  the  contents  more  thaa 
once  ere  he  could  believe  his  own  eyes. 

It  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  check  on  Mark's  Lon- 
don banker  for  just  five  hundred  pounds. 

A  half-sheet  was  wrapped  round  it,  on  which  were  written 
these  words  : 

"To  Thomas  Thurnall,  Esq.,  for  behaving  like  a  gen- 
tleman. The  check  will  be  duly  honored  at  Messrs.  Smith, 
Brown,  and  Jones,  Lombard-street.  No  acknowledgment 
is  to  be  sent.     Don't  tell  your  father. 

"  Mark  Armsworth." 

"  Queer  old  world  it  is  !  "  said  Tom,  when  the  first  burst 
of  childish  delight  was  oVer.  "  And  jolly  old  flirt.  Dame 
Fortune,  after  all  !  If  I  had  written  this  in  a  book,  now, 
who  'd  have  believed  it  ?  " 

"Father,"  said  he,  as  he  kissed  the  old  man  farewell, 
"  I  've  a  little  money  come  in.  I  '11  send  you  fifty  from 
London  in  a  day  or  two,  and  lodge  a  hundred  and  fifty 
more  with  Smith  and  Co.  So  you  '11  be  quite  in  clover 
while  I  am  poisoning  the  Turkeys,  or  at  some  better  work." 

The  old  man  thanked  God  for  his  good  son,  and  only 
hoped  that  he  was  not  straitening  himself  to  buy  luxuries  for 
a  useless  old  fellow. 

Another  sacred  kiss  on  that  white  head,  and  Tom  was 
away  for  London  with  a  fuller  purse,  and  a  more  self-con- 
tented heart,  too,  than  he  had  known  for  many  a  year. 

And  Elsley  was  left  behind,  under  the  gray  church-spire, 
sleeping  with  his  fathers,  and  vexing  his  soul  with  poetry  no 
more.  Mark  has  covered  him  now  with  a  fair  Portland  slab. 
He  took  Claude  Mellot  to  it  this  winter  before  church-time, 
and  stood  over  it  long  with  a  puzzled  look,  as  if  dimly  dis- 
covering that  there  were  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
than  were  dreamed  of  in  his  philosophy. 

"  Wonderful  fellow  he  was,  after  all  1  Mary  shall  read  us 
out  some  of  his  verses  to-night.  But,  I  say,  why  should  peo« 
pie  be  born  clever,  only  to  make  them  the  more  miserable  ? 


492        THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

"  Perhaps  they  learn  the  more,  papa,  by  their  sorrows,'' 
said  quiet  little  Mary  ;  "  and  so  they  are  the  gainers  aft^i 
all." 

And,  none  of  them  having-  any  better  answer  to  give, 
they  all  three  went  into  the  church,  to  see  if  one  could  be 
found  there. 

And  so  Tom  Thurnall,  too,  went  Eastward-Ho,  to  take, 
like  all  the  rest,  what  God  might  Bend. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TOO   LATE. 

AND  how  (vas  poor  Grace  Harvey  prospering  the  while  1 
While  eomfijrtable  folks  were  praising  her,  at  their  leisure, 
as  a  heroine,  Grace  Harvey  was  learning,  so  she  opined,  by 
fearful  lessons,  how  much  of  the  unheroic  element  was  still 
left  in  her.  The  first  lesson  had  come  just  a  week  after 
the  yacht  sailed  for  Port  Madoc,  when  the  cholera  had  all 
but  subsided  ;  and  it  came  in  this  wise.  Before  breakfast 
one  morning  she  had  to  go  up  to  Heale's  shop  for  some 
cordial.  Her  mother  had  passed,  so  she  said,  a  sleepless 
night,  and  come  down  stairs  nervous  and  without  appetite, 
oppressed  with  melancholy,  both  in  the  spiritual  and  the 
physical  sense  of  the  word.  It  was  often  so  with  her  now. 
She  had  escaped  the  cholera.  The  remoteness  of  her  house  ; 
her  care  never  to  enter  the  town  ;  the  purity  of  the  water, 
which  trickled  always  fresh  from  the  cliff  close  by  ;  and 
last,  but  not  least,  the  scrupulous  cleanliness  which  —  to  do 
her  justice  —  she  had  always  observed,  and  in  which  she  had 
trained  up  Grace,  — all  these  had  kept  her  safe. 

But  Grace  could  see  that  her  dread  of  the  cholera  was 
intense.  She  even  tried  at  first  to  prevent  Grace  from 
entering  an  infected  house  ;  but  that  proposal  was  answered 
by  a  look  of  horror  which  shamed  her  into  silence,  and  she 
contented  herself  with  all  but  tabooing  Grace  ;  making  her 
change  her  clothes  whenever  she  came  in  ;  refusing  to  sit 
witli  her,  almost  to  eat  with  her.  But,  over  and  above  all 
this,  she  had  grown  moody,  peevish,  subject  to  violent  bursts 
of  crying,  fits  of  superstitious  depression ;  spent,  some- 
times, whole  days  in  reading  experimental  books,  arguing 
with  the  preachers,  gadding  to  and  fro  to  every  sermon. 
Am  inian  or  Calvinist ;  and  at  last  even  to  Church  —  walk- 
ing in  dry  places,  poor  soul  ;  seeking  rest,  and  finding 
none. 

All  this  betokened  some  malady  of  the  mind,  rather  than 
of  the  body ;  but  what  that  malady  was,  Grace  dare  not 
42  (^93) 


494  TOO    LATE. 

even  try  to  guess.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  fits  of  reli- 
g-ious  melancholy  so  common  in  the  West  country  —  like 
her  own,  in  fact ;  perhaps  it  was  all  "  nerves."  Iler  mother 
was  growing  old,  and  had  a  great  deal  of  business  to  worry 
her :  and  so  Grace  thrust  away  the  horrible  suspicion  by 
little  self-deceptions. 

She  went  into  the  shop.  Tom  was  busy  upon  his  knees 
behind  the  counter.     She  made  her  request. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Harvey  I  "  and  he  sprang  up.  "  It  will  be  a 
pleasure  to  serve  you  once  more  in  one's  life.  I  am  just 
going.'] 

"  Going  where  ?  " 

"  To  Turkey,     I  find  this  place  too  pleasant  and  too  poor 
Not  work  enough,  and  certainly  not  pay  enough.     So  I  have 
got  an  appointment  as  surgeon  in  the  Turkish  contingent, 
and  shall  be  ofl'  in  an  hour." 

"Turkey!  to  the  war?" 

"  Yes.     It 's  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  any  fighting 
I  am   quite   out  of  practice  in  gunshot  wounds.     There  is 
the  medicine.     Good-by  !     You  will  shako  hands  once,  for 
the  sake  of  our  late  cholera  work  together  ?  " 

Grace  held  out  her  hand  mechanically  across  the  counter, 
and  he  took  it.  But  she  did  not  look  into  his  face.  Only 
she  said,  half  to  herself,  — 

"  Well,  better  so.  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be  very  use- 
ful among  them." 

"  Confound  the  icicle  !  "  thought  Tom.  "  I  really  believe 
that  she  wants  to  get  rid  of  me."  And  he  would  have 
withdrawn  liis  hand  in  a  pet;  but  she  held  it  still. 

Quaint  it  was  ;  those  two  strong  natures,  each  loving  the 
other  better  than  anything  else  on  earth,  and  yet  parted 
by  the  thinnest  pane  of  ice,  which  a  single  look  would  have 
melted.  She  longing  to  follow  that  man  over  the  wide 
world,  slave  for  him,  die  for  him  ;  he  longing  for  the  least 
excuse  for  making  a  fool  of  himself,  and  crying,  "  Take  me, 
as  I  take  you,  without  a  penny,  for  better,  for  worse  !  "  If 
their  eyes  had  but  met !  But  they  did  not  meet ;  and  the 
pane  of  ice  kept  them  asunder  as  surely  as  a  wall  of  iron. 

Was  it  that  Tom  was  piqued  at  her  seeming  coldness  ;  or 
did  he  expect,  before  he  made  any  advances,  that  she  should 
show  that  she  wished  at  least  for  his  respect,  by  saying 
something  to  clear  up  the  ugly  question  which  lay  between 
them  ?  Or  was  he,  as  I  suspect,  so  ready  to  melt,  and  make 
a  fool  of  himself,  that  he  must  needs  harden  his  own  heart 
by  help  of  the  devil  himself?     And  yet  there  are  excuses 


TOO    LATE.  495 

for  him  It  would  have  been  a  sore  trial  to  any  man's  tem- 
per to  quit  Aberalva  in  the  belief  that  he  left  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  behind  him.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  said  carelessly, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  — 

"  Well,  farewell !  And,  by  the  by,  about  that  little  money 
matter.  The  month  of  which  you  spoke  once  was  up  yes- 
terday. I  suppose  I  am  not  worthy  yet ;  so  I  shall  be  huu)' 
ble,  and  wait  patiently.  Don't  hurry  yourself,  I  beg  you, 
on  my  account." 

She  snatched  her  hand  from  his  without  a  word,  and 
rushed  out  of  the  shop. 

He  returned  to  his  packing,  whistling  away  as  shrill  as 
any  blackbird. 

Little  did  he  think  that  Grace's  heart  was  bursting,  as 
she  hurried  down  the  street,  covering  her  face  in  her  veil, 
as  if  every  one  would  espy  her  dark  secret  in  her  counte- 
nance. 

But  she  did  not  go  home  to  hysterics  and  vain  tears.  An 
awful  purpose  had  arisen  in  her  mind,  i;nder  the  pressure 
of  that  great  agony.  Heavens,  how  she  loved  that  man  ! 
To  be  suspected  by  him  was  torture.  But  she  could  bear 
that.  It  was  her  cross  ;  she  could  carry  it,  lie  down  on  it, 
and  endure;  but  wrong  him  she  could  not  —  would  not! 
It  was  sinful  enough  while  he  was  there  ;  but  doubly,  un- 
bearably sinful,  when  he  was  going  to  a  foreign  country, 
when  he  would  need  every  farthing  he  had.  So,  not  for  her 
own  sake,  but  for  his,  she  spoke  to  her  mother  when  she 
went  home,  and  found  her  sitting  over  the  Bible  in  the 
little  parlor,  vainly  trying  to  find  a  text  which  suited  her 
distemper. 

"  Mother,  you  have  the  Bible  before  you  there." 

"Yes,  child!  Why?  What?"  asked  she,  looking  up 
uneasily. 

Grace  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground.  She  could  not  look 
her  mother  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  ever  read  the  thirty-second  Psalm,  mother?  " 

"  Which  ?     Why  not,  child  ?  " 

"  Let  us  read  it  together  then,  now." 

And  Grace,  taking  up  her  own  Bible,  sat  quietly  down 
and  read,  as  none  in  that  parish  save  she  could  read  : 

"  Blessed  is  he  whose  transgression  is  forgiven,  and 
whose  sin  is  covered. 

"  Blessed  is  the  man  unto  whom  the  Lord  imputeth  not 
iniquity,  and  in  whose  spirit  there  is  no  guile. 


496  TOO    LATE. 

"  WheL  I  kept  silence,  my  bones  waxed  old,  through  my 
groaning  all  the  day  long. 

"  For  day  and  night  Thy  hand  was  heavy  upon  me  ;  mj 
moisture  is  turned  to  the  drought  of"  summer. 

"  1  acknowledged  my  sin  unto  Thee,  and  mine  iniquity 
have  I  not  hid. 

"  I  said,  I  will  confess  my  transgressions  unto  the  Lord  ; 
and  Thou  foi-gavest  the  iniquity  of  my  sin." 

Grace  stopped,  choked  with  tears  which  the  pathos  of 
her  own  voice  had  called  up.  She  looked  at  her  mother. 
There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  only  a  dull  thwart  look 
of  terror  and  suspicion.  The  shaft,  however  bravely  and 
cunningly  sped,  had  missed  its  mark. 

Poor  Grace  !  Her  usual  eloquence  utterly  failed  her,  as 
most  things  do  in  which  one  is  wont  to  trust,  before  the 
pressure  of  a  real  and  horrible  evil.  She  had  no  heart  to 
make  fine  sentences,  to  preach  a  brilliant  sermon  of  common- 
places. What  could  she  say  that  her  mother  had  not  known 
long  before  she  was  born  ?  And,  throwing  herself  on  her 
knees  at  her  mother's  feet,  she  grasped  both  her  hands,  and 
looked  into  her  face  imploringly, —  "Mother!  mother! 
mother  !  "  was  all  that  she  could  say  ;  but  their  tone  meant 
more  than  all  words.  Reproof,  counsel,  comfort,  utter  ten- 
derness, an  under-current  of  clear,  deep  trust,  bubbling  up 
from  beneath  all  passing  suspicions,  however  dark  and  foul, 
were  in  it ;  but  they  were  vain. 

Baser  terror,  the  pareiit  of  baser  suspicion,  had  hardened 
that  woman's  heart  for  the  while  ;  and  all  she  answered 
was,  — 

"  Get  up  !     What  is  this  foolery  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  I  I  will  not  rise  till  you  have  told  me." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Whether"  —  and  she  forced  the  words  slowly  out  in  a 
low  whisper,  "whether  you  know  —  anything  of — of  Mr. 
Thurnall's  money  —  his  belt  ?  " 

"  Is  the  girl  mad  ?  Belt  ?  Money  ?  Do  you  take  me  for 
a  thief,  wench  ?  " 

"No!  no!  no!     Only  say  you  —  you  know  nothing  of 

1 V    I 

"  Psha  I  girl  !  Go  to  your  school ;  "  and  the  old  woman 
tried  to  rise. 

"  Only  say  that !  only  let  me  know  that  it  is  a  dream  —  a 
hideous  dream  which  the  devil  put  into  my  wicked,  wicked 
heart  —  and  let  me  know  that  1  am  the  basest,  meanest  of 
daughters  for  harboring  such  a  thought  a  moment !     It  will 


TOO    LATE. 


497 


b<j  comfort,  bliss,  to  what  I  endure  !  Only  say  that,  and  1 
will  crawl  to  your  feet,  and  beg  for  your  forgiveness,  — ask 
you  to  beat  me,  like  a  child,  as  I  shall  deserve  !  Drive  me 
out,  if  you  will,  and  let  me  die,  as  I  shall  deserve !  Only 
say  the  word,  and  take  this  fire  from  before  my  eyes,  which 
burns  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  —  till  my  brain  is 
dried  up  with  misery  and  shame  !  Mother,  mother, 
speak  !  " 

But  then  burst  out  the  horrible  suspicion,  which  falsehood, 
suspecting  all  others  of  being  false  as  itself,  had  engendered 
in  that  mother's  heart. 

"  Yes,  viper  I  I  see  your  plan  !  Do  you  think  I  do  not 
know  that  you  are  in  love  with  that  fellow  ?  " 

Grace  started  as  if  she  had  been  shot,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  Yes  !  and  want  me  to  betray  myself —  to  tell  a  lie  about 
myself,  that  you  may  curry  favor  with  him  —  a  penniless, 
unbelieving —  " 

"  Mother,"  almost  shrieked  Grace,  "  I  can  bear  no  more  ! 
Say  that  it  is  a  lie,  and  then  kill  me  if  you  will  !  " 

"It  is  a  lie,  from  beginning  to  end!  AVhat  else  should 
it  be  ?  "  And  the  woman,  in  the  hurry  of  her  passion,  con- 
firmed the  equivocation  with  an  oath  ;  and  then  ran  on,  as 
if  to  turn  her  own  thoughts,  as  well  as  Grace's,  into  com- 
mon-places about  "  a  poor  old  mother  who  cares  for  nothing 
but  you ;  who  has  worked  her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  years 
to  leave  you  a  little  money  when  she  is  gone  !  I  wish  I 
were  gone  !  I  wish  I  were  out  of  this  wretched,  ungrateful 
world,  I  do  !  To  have  my  own  child  turn  against  me  in  my 
old  age  !  " 

Grace  lifted  her  hands  from  her  face,  and  looked  stead 
fastly  at  her  mother.     And,  behold,  she  knew  not  how  or 
why,  she  felt  that  her  mother   had   forsworn   herself     A 
strong  shudder  passed  through  her  ;  she  rose,  and  was  leav- 
ing the  room  in  silence. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  hussy  ?  Stop  !  "  screamed  her 
mother  between  her  teeth,  her  rage  and  cruelty  rising,  as  it 
will  with  weak  natures,  in  the  very  act  of  triumph,  —  "  to 
your  young  man  ?  " 

"To  pray,"  said  Grace,  quietly  ;  and,  locking  herself  into 
the  empty  schoolroom,  gave  vent  to  all  her  feelings,  but  not 
in  tears. 

How  she  upbraided   herself!  —  She   had   not  used  her 
strength  ;  she  had  not  told  her  mother  all  her  heart.     And 
yet  liow  could  she  tell  her  heart  ?     How  face  her  mothei 
42* 


498  TOO    LATE. 

with  such  vague  suspicions,  hardly  supported  by  a  single 
fact '{  llow  argue  it  out  against  her  like  a  lawyer,  and  con- 
vict her  to  her  face  ?  What  daughter  could  do  that,  who 
had  luiman  love  and  reverence  left  in  her'/  No!  to  touch 
her  inward  witness,  as  the  Quakers  well  and  truly  term  it, 
was  the  only  method  ;  and  it  had  failed.  "  God  help  me  I  " 
was  her  only  cry  ;  but  the  help  did  not  come  j^et ;  there 
came  over  her  instead  a  feeling  of  utter  loneliness.  Willis 
dead  ;  Thurnall  gone  ;  her  mother  estranged  ;  and,  like  a 
child  lost  upon  a  great  moor,  she  looked  round  all  heaven 
and  earth,  and  there  was  none  to  counsel,  none  to  guide  — 
perhaps  not  even  God.  For  would  he  help  her  as  long  as 
she  lived  in  sin  ?  And  was  she  not  living  in  sin,  deadly 
sin,  as  long  as  she  knew  what  she  was  sure  she  knew,  and 
left  the  wrong  unrighted  ? 

It  is  sometimes  true,  the  popular  saying,  that  sunshine 
comes  after  storm.  Sometimes  true,  or  who  could  live  ? 
but  not  always  ;  not  even  often.  Equally  true  is  the  popu- 
lar antithet,  that  misfortunes  never  come  single  ;  that  in 
most  human  lives  there  are  periods  of  trouble,  blow  follow- 
ing blow,  wave  following  wave,  from  opposite  and  unex- 
pected quarters,  with  no  natural  or  logical  sequence,  till  all 
God's  billows  have  gone  over  the  soul. 

IIow  paltry  and  helpless  in  such  dark  times  are  all  theo- 
ries of  mere  self-education  ;  all  proud  attempts,  like  that  of 
Gothe's  Wilhelm  Meister,  to  hang  self-poised  in  the  centre 
of  the  abyss,  and  there  organize  for  one's  self  a  character  by 
means  of  circumstances  !  Easy  enough  and  graceful  enough 
does  that  dream  look,  while  all  the  circumstances  them- 
selves—  all  which  stands  around — are  easy  and  graceful, 
obliging  and  common-place,  like  the  sphere  of  petty  experi- 
ences with  which  Gothe  surrounds  his  insipid  hero.  Easy 
enough  it  seems  for  a  man  to  educate  himself  without  God, 
as  long  as  he  lies  comfortably  on  a  sofa,  with  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee and  a  review  ;  but  what  if  that  "  demoniac  element  of 
the  universe,"  which  Gothe  confessed,  and  yet  in  his  luxu- 
riousness  tried  to  ignore,  because  he  could  not  explain  — 
what  if  that  broke  forth  over  the  graceful  and  prosperous 
student,  as  it  may  any  moment  ?  What  if  some  thing,  or 
some  person,  or  many  things,  or  many  persons,  one  after 
the  other  (questions  which  he  must  get  answered  then,  or 
die),  took  him  up  and  dashed  him  down,  again,  and  again, 
till  he  was  ready  to  cry,  "  I  reckoned  till  morning  that  like 
a  lion  he  will  break  all  my  bones  ;  from  morning  till  even- 
ing he  will  make  an  end  of  me  ?  "     What  if  he  thus  found 


TOO    LATE.  499 

himself  burled  perforce  amid  the  real  universal  experiences 
of  humanity;  and  made  free,  in  spite  of  himself,  by  doubt 
and  fear  and  horror  of  great  darkness,  of  the  brotherhood 
of  woe,  common  alike  to  the  simplest  peasant-womaiL,  and 
to  every  great  soul  perhaps,  who  has  left  his  impress  and 
Bign  manual  upon  the  hearts  of  after  generations  ?  Jew, 
Heathen,  or  Christian  ;  men  of  the  most  opposite  creeds 
and  aims  ;  whether  it  be  Moses  or  Socrates,  Isaiah  or  Epic- 
tetus,  Augustine  or  Mohammed,  Dante  or  Bernard,  Shaks- 
peare  or  Bacon,  or  Gothe's  self,  no  doubt,  though  in  his  tre- 
mendous pride  he  would  not  confess  it  even  to  himself,  — 
each  and  all  of  them  have  this  one  fact  in  common  —  that 
once  in  their  lives,  at  least,  they  have  gone  down  into  the 
bottomless  pit,  and  "state  all'  inferno"  —  as  the  children 
used  truly  to  say  of  Dante  ;  and  there,  out  of  the  utter 
darkness,  have  asked  the  question  of  all  questions,  "  Is 
there  a  God  ?  And  if  there  be,  what  is  He  doing  with 
me?" 

What  refuge,  then,  in  self-education,  when  a  man  feels 
himself  powerless  in  the  gripe  of  some  unseen  and  inevita- 
ble power,  and  knows  not  whether  it  be  chance  or  neces- 
sity, or  a  devouring  fiend  ?  To  wrap  himself  sternly  in 
himself,  and  cry,  "  I  will  endure,  though  all  the  universe 
be  against  me!"  —  how  fine  it  sounds!  But  who  has 
done  it  ?  Could  a  man  do  it  perfectly  but  for  one  moment, 
—  could  he  absolutely  and  utterly,  for  one  moment,  isolate 
himself,  and  accept  his  own  isolation  as  a  fact,  he  were 
then  and  there  a  madman  or  a  suicide.  As  it  is,  his  nature, 
happily  too  weak  for  that  desperate  self-assertion,  falls  back 
recklessly  on  some  form,  more  or  less  graceful,  according  to 
the  temperament  of  the  ancient  panacea,  "Let  us  eat  and 
drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die."  Why  should  a  man  educate 
self,  when  he  knows  not  whither  he  goes,  what  will  befall 
him  to-night  ?  No.  There  is  but  one  escape,  one  chink 
through  which  we  may  see  light,  one  rock  on  which  oui 
feet  may  find  standing-place,  even  in  the  abyss  ;  and  that 
is  the  belief,  intuitive,  inspired,  due  neither  to  reasoning 
nor  to  study,  that  the  billows  are  God's  billows  ;  and  that 
though  we  go  down  to  hell,  lie  is  there  also  ;  —  the  beliel 
that  not  we,  but  He,  is  educating  us  ;  that  these  seem- 
ingly fantastic  and  incoherent  miseries,  storm  following 
earthquake,  and  earthquake  fire,  as  if  the  caprice  of  aP  the 
demons  were  let  loose  against  us,  have  in  His  mind  a  spir- 
itual coherence,  an  organic  unity  and  purpose  (though  we 
pee  it  not)  ;  that  sorrows  do  not  come  singly,  only  because 


600  TOO    LATE. 

He  is  making'  short  work  with  our  spirits  ;  ami  because  the 
more  eflfect  lie  sees  produced  by  one  blow,  the  more  swiftly 
He  follows  it  up  by  another ;  till,  in  one  great  and  varied 
crisis,  seeniing-ly  long  to  us,  but  short  enough  cuuip.ired 
with  immortality,  our  spirits  may  be  — 

•'  Heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  bathed  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 
And  battered  with  the  strokes  of  doom, 
To  shape  and  use." 

And  thus,  perhaps,  it  was  with  poor  Grace  Harvey.  At 
least,  happily  for  her,  she  began  after  a  while  to  think  that 
it  was  so.  Only  after  a  while,  though.  There  was  at  first 
a  phase  of  repining,  of  doubt,  almost  of  indignation  against 
high  Heaven.  Who  shall  judge  her?  What  blame  if  the 
crucified  one  writhe  when  the  first  nail  is  driven  '{  What 
blame  if  the  stoutest  turn  sick  and  giddy  at  the  first  home- 
thrust  of  that  sword  which  pierces  the  joint  and  marrow, 
and  lays  bare  to  self  the  secrets  of  the  heart?  God  gives 
poor  souls  time  to  recover  their  breaths,  ere  He  strike 
again  ;  and  if  He  be  not  angry,  why  should  we  con- 
demn ? 

Poor  Grace  !  Her  sorrows  had  been  thickening  fast 
during  the  last  few  months.  She  was  schoolmistress  again, 
true  ;  but  where  were  her  children  ?  Those  of  them  whom 
she  loved  best  were  swept  away  by  the  cholera  ;  and  could 
she  face  the  remnant,  each  in  mourning  for  a  parent  or  a 
brother  ?  That  alone  was  grief  enough  for  her  ;  and  yet 
that  was  the  lightest  of  all  her  griefs.  She  loved  Tom 
Thurnall  —  how  much  she  dared  not  tell  herself;  she  longed 
to  "  save  "  him.  She  had  thought,  and  not  untruly,  during 
the  past  cholera  weeks,  that  he  vi^as  softened,  opened  to 
new  impressions  ;  but  he  had  avoided  her  more  than  ever  — 
perhaps  suspected  her  again  more  than  ever  —  and  now  he 
was  gone,  gone  forever.  That,  too,  was  grief  enough 
alone.  But  darkest  and  deepest  of  all,  darker  and  deeper 
than  the  past  shame  of  being  suspected  by  him  she  loved, 
was  the  shame  of  suspecting  her  own  mother,  —  of  believ- 
ing herself,  as  she  did,  privy  to  that  shameful  theft,  and 
yet  unable  to  make  restitution.  There  was  the  horror  o^ 
all  horrors,  the  close  prison  which  seemed  to  stifie  her 
whole  soul.  The  only  chink  through  which  a  breath  of  air 
seemed  to  come,  and  keep  her  heart  alive,  was  the  hope 
that  somehow,  somewhere,  she  might  find  that  belt,  and 
restore  it  without  her  mother's  knowledge. 

But  more  —  the  first  of  September  was  come  and  gone  ; 


TOO    LATE.  501 

the  bill  for  five-and-twenty  pounds  was  due,  and  was  not 
met.  Grace,  choking  down  her  honest  pride,  went  off  to 
the  grocer,  and,  with  tears  which  he  could  not  resist,  had 
persuaded  him  to  renew  the  bill  for  one  month  more  ;  and 
now  that  month  was  all  but  past,  and  yet  there  was  no 
money.  Eight  or  ten  people  who  owed  Mrs.  Harvey  money 
had  died  of  the  cholera.  Some,  of  course,  had  left  no 
effects ;  and  all  hope  of  their  working  out  their  debts  was 
gone.  Some  had  left  money  behind  them  ;  but  it  was  still 
in  the  lawyer's  hands,  some  of  it  at  sea,  some  on  mortgage, 
some  in  houses  which  must  be  sold  :  —  till  their  affairs  were 
■wound  up  (a  sadly  slow  affair  when  a  country  attorney 
has  a  poor  man's  unprofitable  business  to  transact),  noth- 
ing could  come  in  to  Mrs.  Harvey.  To  and  fro  she  went 
with  knitted  brow  and  heavy  heart  ;  and  brought  home 
again  only  promises,  as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times  be- 
fore. One  day  she  went  up  to  Mrs.  Heale.  Old  Heale 
owed  her  thirteen  pounds  and  more  :  but  that  was  not  the 
least  reason  for  paying.  His  cholera  patients  had  not  paid 
him  ;  and  whether  Heale  had  the  money  by  him  or  not,  he 
was  not  going  to  pay  his  debts  till  other  people  paid  theirs. 
Mrs.  Harvey  stormed  ;  Mrs.  Heale  gave  her  as  good  as  she 
brought ;  and  Mrs.  Harvey  threatened  to  County  Court  her 
husband  ;  whereon  Mrs.  Heale,  en  revanche,  dragged  out  the 
books,  and  displayed  to  the  poor  widow's  horror-struck 
eyes  an  account  for  medicine  and  attendance,  on  her  and 
Grace,  which  nearly  swallowed  up  the  debt.  Poor  Grace 
was  overwhelmed  when  her  mother  came  home  and  up- 
braided her,  in  her  despair,  with  being  a  burden.  Was  she 
not  a  burden  ?  Must  she  not  be  one  henceforth  ?  No,  she 
would  take  in  needle-work,  labor  in  the  fields,  heave  ballast 
among  the  coarse  pauper-girls  in  the  quay-pool  ;  anything 
rather  ;  — but  how  to  meet  the  present  difficulty  ? 

"  Wc  must  sell  our  furniture,  mother  !  " 

"  For  a  quarter  of  what  it 's  worth  ?  Never,  girl  !  No  ! 
The  Lord  will  provide,"  said  she,  between  her  clenched 
teeth,  with  a  sort  of  hysteric  chuckle.  "  The  Lord  will  pro- 
vide !  " 

"  I  believe  it ;  I  believe  it,"  said  poor  Grace  ;  "  but  faith 
is  weak,  and  the  day  is  very  dark,  mother." 

"  Dark,  ay  ?  And  may  be  darker,  yet ;  but  the  Lord  will 
provide.  He  prepares  a  table  in  the  wilderness  for  hia 
saints  that  the  world  don't  think  of." 

"0,  mother!  and  do  you  think  there  is  any  door  of 
hope  ?  " 


502  TOO    LATE. 

"  Go  to  bed,  girl ;  go  to  bed,  and  leave  me  to  see  to  that 
Find  my  spectacles.  Wherever  have  you  laid  them  tOj 
now?     I  '11  look  over  the  books  awhile." 

"  Do  let  me  go  over  them  for  you." 

"  No,  you  shan't  1  I  suppose  you  '11  be  wanting  to  make 
out  your  poor  old  mother's  been  cheating  somebody.  Why 
not,  if  I  'm  a  thief,  miss,  eh  ?  " 

"  0,  mother!  mother  !  don't  say  that  again." 

And  Grace  glided  out  meekly  to  her  own  chamber,  which 
was  on  the  ground-floor  adjoining  the  parlor,  and  there 
spent  more  than  one  hour  in  prayer,  from  which  no  present 
comfort  seemed  to  come  ;  yet  who  shall  say  that  it  was  all 
unanswered  ? 

At  last  her  mother  came  up  stairs,  and  put  her  head  in, 
angrily  ;  —  "  Why  be  n't  you  in  bed,  girl  'i  sitting  up  this 
way  ?  " 

"  I  was  praying,  mother,"  says  Grace,  looking  upas  she 
knelt. 

"Praying!  What's  the  use  of  praying?  and  who'll 
hear  you  if  you  pray  ?  Wliat  you  want 's  a  husband  to 
keep  you  out  of  the  workhouse  ;  and  you  won't  get 
that  by  kneeling  here.  Get  to  bed,  I  say,  or  I  '11  pull  yovi 
up  !  " 

Grace  obeyed  uncomplaining,  but  utterly  shocked ; 
though  she  was  not  unacquainted  with  those  friglitful  fits 
of  morose  unbelief,  even  of  fierce  blasphemy,  to  which  the 
excitable  West  country  mind  is  liable,  after  having  been 
overstrained  by  superstitious  self-inspection,  and  by  the 
desperate  attempt  to  prove  itself  right  and  safe  from  frames 
and  feelings,  while  fact  and  conscience  proclaim  it  wrong. 

The  West  country  people  are  apt  to  attribute  these  par- 
oxysms to  the  possession  of  a  devil ;  and  so  did  Grace  that 
night. 

Trembling  with  terror  and  loving  pitj^  she  lay  down,  and 
began  to  pray  afresh  for  that  poor,  wild  mother. 

At  last  the  fear  crossed  her  that  her  mother  might  make 
away  wi^.h  herself.  But  a  few  years  before,  another  class* 
jp'iler  :a  Aberalva  had  attempted  to  do  so,  and  had  all  but 
succeeded.  The  thought  was  intolerable.  She  must  go 
to  her  ;  face  reproaches,  blows,  anything.  She  rose  from 
her  bed,  and  went  to  the  door ;  it  was  fastcmed  on  the 
outside. 

A  cold  perspiration  stood  on  her  forehead.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  shriek  to  her  mother ;  but  checked  herself  when 
she  heard  her  stirring  gently  in  the  outer  room.    Her  pulsei 


TOO   LATE.  503 

throbbed  too  loudly  at  first  for  her  to  hear  distinctly  :  but 
Bhe  felt  that  it  was  no  moment  for  giving  way  to  emotion  ; 
by  a  strong  effort  of  will,  she  conquered  herself;  and  then, 
with  that  preternatural  acuteness  of  sense  which  some 
women  possess,  she  could  hear  everything  her  mother  was 
doing.  She  heard  her  put  on  her  shawl,  her  bonnet ;  she 
heard  her  open  the  front  door  gently.  It  was  now  long 
past  midnight.     Whither  could  she  be  going  at  that  hour  ? 

She  heard  her  go  gently  to  the  left,  pass  the  window  ; 
and  yet  her  footfall  was  all  but  inaudible.  No  rain  had 
fallen,  and  her  shoes  ought  to  have  sounded  on  the  hard 
earth.  She  must  have  taken  them  off.  There,  she  was 
stopping,  just  by  the  school-door.  Now  she  moved  again. 
She  must  have  stopped  to  put  on  her  shoes  ;  for  now  Grace 
could  hear  her  steps  distinctly,  down  the  earth  bank,  and 
over  the  rattling  shingle  of  the  beach.  Where  was  she 
going  ?     Grace  must  follow  ! 

The  door  was  fast ;  but  in  a  moment  she  had  removed  the 
table,  opened  the  shutter  and  the  window. 

"  Thank  God  that  I  staid  here  on  the  ground  floor,  instead 
of  going  back  to  my  own  room  when  Major  Campbell  left. 
It  is  a  providence  I  The  Lord  has  not  forsaken  me  yet !  " 
said  the  sweet  saint,  as,  catching  up  her  shawl,  she  wrapped 
it  round  her,  and,  slipping  through  the  window,  crouched 
under  the  shadow  of  the  house,  and  looked  for  her  mother. 

She  was  hurrying  over  the  rocks,  a  hundred  yards  off. 
Whither  ?  To  drown  herself  in  the  sea?  No  ;  she  held  on 
along  the  mid-beach,  right  across  the  cove,  toward  Arthur's 
Nose.     But  why  ?     Grace  must  know. 

She  felt,  she  knew  not  why,  that  this  strange  journey, 
that  wild  "  The  Lord  will  provide,"  had  to  do  with  the 
subject  of  her  suspicion.  Perhaps  this  was  the  crisis  ; 
perhaps  all  would  be  cleared  up  to-night,  for  joy  or  for 
utter  shame. 

The  tide  was  low  ;  the  beach  was  bright  in  the  western 
moonlight ;  only  along  the  cliff  foot  lay  a  strip  of  shadow  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  long,  till  the  Nose,  Uke  a  great  black  wall, 
buried  the  corner  of  the  cove  in  darkness. 

Along  that  strip  of  shadow  she  ran,  crouching  ;  now 
stumbling  over  a  boulder,  now  crushing  her  bare  feet 
between  the  sharp  pebbles,  as,  heedless  where  she  stepped, 
she  kept  her  eye  fixed  on  her  mother.  As  if  fascinated,  she 
could  see  nothing  else  in  heaven  or  earth  but  that  dark 
figure,  hurrying  along  with  a  dogged  deterniination,  and 
then  stopping  a  moment  to  look  round,  as  if  in  i'vAv  of  a 


504  TOO    LATE. 

pursuer.  And  then  Grace  lay  down  on  the  cold  stones, 
and  pressed  herself  into  the  very  earth  ;  and,  the  momeni 
her  mother  turned  to  go  forward,  sprang  up  and  followed. 

And  then  a  true  woman's  thought  flashed  across  her,  and 
shaped  itself  into  a  prayer.  For  iierself  she  never  thought ; 
but  if  the  Coast  Guardsman  above  should  see  her  mother, 
stop  her,  question  her  ?  God  grant  that  he  might  be  on 
the  other  side  of  the  point  !     And  she  hurried  on  again. 

Near  the  Nose  the  rocks  ran  high  and  jagged  ;  her 
mother  held  on  to  them,  passed  through  a  narrow  chasm, 
and  disappeared. 

Grace,  now  not  fifty  yards  from  her,  darted  out  of  the 
shadow  into  the  moonlight,  and  ran  breathlessly  toward  the 
spot  where  she  had  seen  her  mother  last.  Like  Anderssen's 
little  sea-maiden,  she  went,  every  step  on  sharp  knives, 
across  the  rough  beds  of  barnacles  ;  but  she  felt  no  pain,  in 
the  greatness  of  her  terror  and  her  love. 

She  crouched  between  the  rocks  for  a  moment  ;  heard  her 
mother  slipping  and  splashing  among  the  pools  ;  and  glided 
after  her  like  a  ghost,  —  a  guardian  angel  rather,  —  till  she 
saw  her  emerge  again  for  a  moment  into  the  moonlight, 
upon  a  strip  of  beach  beneath  the  Nose. 

It  was  a  weird  and  lonely  spot ;  and  a  dangerous  spot 
withal  ;  for  only  at  low  spring-tide  could  it  be  reached  from 
the  land,  and  then  the  flood  rose  far  up  the  cliff,  covering 
all  the  shingle,  and  filling  the  mouth  of  a  dark  cavern.  Had 
her  mother  gone  to  that  cavern  ?  It  was  impossible  to  see, 
so  utterly  was  the  cUfl"  shrouded  in  shadow. 

Shivering  with  cold  and  excitement,  Grace  crouched 
down,  and  gazed  into  the  gloom,  till  her  eyes  swam,  and  a 
hundred  fantastic  figures,  and  sparks  of  fire,  seemed  to 
dance  between  her  and  the  rock.  Sparks  of  fire  ?  —  yes  ; 
but  that  last  one  was  no  fancy.  An  actual  flash  ;  the 
crackle  and  sputter  of  a  match  !  What  could  it  mean  ? 
Another  match  was  lighted  ;  and,  a  moment  after,  the 
glare  of  a  lantern  showed  her  her  mother  entering  beneath 
the  polished  arch  of  rock  which  glared  lurid  overhead,  like 
the  gateway  of  the  pit  of  fire. 

The  hglit  vanished  into  the  windings  of  the  cave.  And 
then  Grace,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  rushed  up  the 
beach,  and  crouched  down  once  more  at  the  cave's  mouth. 
There  she  sat,  she  knew  not  how  long,  listening,  listening, 
like  a  hunted  hare  ;  her  whole  faculties  concentrated  in  the 
one  sense  of  hearing  ;  her  eyes  wandering  vacantly  over  the 
black  saws  of  ro^-k,  and  glistening  oar-weed  beds,  and  bright 


TOO    LATE.  505 

phosphoric  sea.  Thank  Heaven,  there  was  not  a  ripple  to 
break  the  silence.  Ah,  what  was  that  sound  within  ?  She 
pressed  her  ear  against  the  rock,  to  hear  more  surely.  A 
rumbling  as  of  stones  rolled  down.  And  then, — was  it  a 
fancy,  or  were  her  powers  of  hearing,  intensified  by  excite- 
ment, actually  equal  to  discern  the  chink  of  coin  ?  Who 
knows  ?  but  in  another  moment  she  had  glided  in,  swiftly, 
silently,  holding  her  very  breath ;  and  saw  her  mother 
kneeling  on  the  ground,  the  lantern  by  her  side,  and  in  her 
hand  the  long-lost  belt. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  move.  She  always  knew, 
in  her  heart  of  hearts,  that  so  it  was  ;  but  when  the  sin 
took  bodil}'-  shape,  and  was  there  before  her  very  ej^es,  it 
was  too  dreadful  to  speak  of,  to  act  upon  yet.  And,  amid 
the  most  torturing  horror  and  disgust  of  that  great  sin,  rose 
up  in  her  the  divinest  love  for  the  sinner  ;  she  felt  —  strange 
paradox  —  that  she  had  never  loved  her  mother  as  she  did 
at  that  moment.  "  0,  that  it  had  been  I  who  had  done  it, 
and  not  she  !  "  And  her  mother's  sin  was  to  her  her  own 
sin,  her  mother's  shame  her  shame,  till  all  sense  of  her 
mother's  guilt  vanished  in  the  light  of  her  divine  love. 
"  0,  that  1  could  take  her  up  tenderly,  tell  her  that  all  is 
forgiven  and  forgotten  by  man  and  God  !  —  serve  her  as  I 
never  have  served  her  yet !  —  nurse  her  to  sleep  on  my 
bosom,  and  then  go  forth  and  bear  her  punishment,  even  if 
need  be  on  the  gallows-tree  !  "  And  there  she  stood,  in  a 
silent  agony  offender  pity,  drinking  her  portion  of  the  cup 
of  Him  who  bore  the  sins  of  all  the  world. 

Silently  she  stood  ;  and  silently  she  turned  to  go,  to  go 
home  and  pray  for  guidance  in  that  dark  labyrinth  of  con- 
fused duties.  Her  mother  hoard  the  rustle  ;  looked  up  ; 
and  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  scream,  dropping  gold  pieces 
on  the  ground. 

Her  lirst  impulse  was  wild  terror.  She  was  discovered  ; 
by  whom,  she  knew  not.  She  clasped  her  evil  treasure  to 
her  bosom,  and  thrusting  Grace  against  the  rock  fled  wildly 
out. 

"  Mother  !  Mother  !  "  shrieked  Grace,  rushing  after  her. 
The  shawl  fell  from  her  shoulders.  Her  mother  looked 
back,  and  saw  the  white  figure. 

''■  God's  angel  !  God's  angel,  come  to  destroy  me  !  as  he 
came  to  Balaam  !  "  and  in  the  madness  of  her  guilty  fancy 
she  saw  in  Grace's  hand  the  fiery  sword  which  was  to 
smite  her. 

Another  step,  looking  backward  still,  and  she  had  tripped 
43 


506  TOO   LATE. 

over  a  stone.     She  fell,  and,  striking  the  back  of  her  head 
against  the  rock,  lay  senseless. 

Tenderly  Grace  lifted  her  up  ;  went  for  water  to  a  pool 
near  by  ;  bathed  her  face,  calling  on  her  by  every  term  of 
endearment.  Slowly  the  old  woman  recovered  her  con- 
sciousness, but  showed  it  only  in  moans.  Her  head  was  cut 
and  bleeding.  Grace  bound  it  up,  and  then  taking  that 
fatal  belt,  bound  it  next  to  her  own  heart,  never  to  be 
u".oved  from  thence  till  she  should  put  it  iuto  the  hands 
of  him  to  whom  it  belonged. 

And  then  she  lifted  up  her  mother. 

"  Come  home,  darling  mother,"  and  she  tried  to  make  hei 
stand  and  walk. 

The  old  woman  only  moaned,  and  waved  her  away  im- 
patiently. Grace  put  her  on  her  feet ;  but  she  fell  again. 
The  lower  limbs  seemed  all  but  paralyzed. 

Slowly  that  sweet  saint  lifted  her,  and  laid  her  on  her  own 
back  ;  and  slowly  she  bore  her  homeward,  with  aching  knees 
and  bleeding  feet ;  while  before  her  eyes  hung  the  picture 
of  Him  who  bore  his  cross  up  Calvary,  till  a  solemn  joy  and 
pride  in  that  sacred  burden  seemed  to  intertwine  itself  with 
her  deep  misery.  And,  fainting  every  moment  with  pain  and 
weakness,  she  still  went  on,  as  if  by  supernatural  strength, 
and  murmured,  — 

"  Thou  didst  bear  more  for  me,  and  shall  not  I  bear  even 
this  for  Thee  ?  " 

Surely,  if  blest  spirits  can  weep  and  smile  over  the  woes 
and  heroisms  of  us  mortal  men,  faces  brighter  than  the  stars 
looked  down  on  that  fair  girl  that  night,  and  in  loving  sym- 
pathy called  her,  too,  blest. 

At  last  it  was  over.  Undiscovered  she  reached  home, 
laid  her  mother  on  the  bed,  and  tended  her  till  morning; 
but,  long  ere  morning  dawned,  stupor  had  changed  into 
delirium,  and  Grace's  ears  were  all  on  fire  with  words  — 
which  those  who  have  ever  heard  will  have  no  heart  to  write. 

And  now,  by  one  of  those  strange  vagaries  in  which  epi- 
demics so  often  indulge,  appeared  other  symptoms  ;  and,  by 
day-dawn,  cholera  itself. 

Heale,  though  recovering,  was  still  too  weak  to  be  of 
use  :  but,  happily,  the  medical  man  sent  down  by  the  board 
of  health  was  still  in  town. 

Grace  sent  for  him  ;  but  he  shook  his  head  after  the  first 
look.  The  wretched  woman's  ravings  at  once  explained 
the  case,  and  made  it,  in  his  eyes,  all  but  hopeless. 

The  sudden  shock  to  body  and  mind,  the  sudden  prostra 


TOO   LATE.  507 

tion  of  strength,  had  brought  out  the  disease  which  she  had 
dreaded  so  intensely,  and  against  which  she  had  taken  so 
many  precautions,  and  which  yet  lay,  all  the  while,  lurking 
unfelt  in  her  system. 

A  hideous  eight-and-forty  hours  followed.  The  preachers 
and  class-leaders  came  to  pray  over  the  dying  woman  ;  but 
she  screamed  to  Grace  to  send  them  away.  She  had  just 
sense  enough  left  to  dread  that  she  might  betray  her  own 
shame.  Would  she  have  the  new  clergyman,  then?  No; 
she  would  have  no  one  ;  —  no  one  could  help  her  !  Let  her 
on'y  die  in  peace  ! 

And  Grace  closed  the  door  upon  all  but  the  doctor,  who 
treated  the  wild  sufferer's  wild  words  as  the  mere  fancies 
of  delirium  ;  and  then  Grace  watched  and  prayed  till  she 
found  herself  alone  with  the  dead. 

She  wrote  a  letter  to  Thurnall,  — 

"  Sir  :  I  have  found  your  belt,  and  all  the  money,  I 
believe  and  trust,  which  it  contained.  If  you  will  be  so  kind 
as  to  tell  me  where  and  how  I  shall  send  it  to  you,  you  will 
take  a  heavy  burden  off  the  mind  of 

"  Your  obedient  humble  servant, 
who  trusts  that  you  will  forgive  her  having  been  unable  to 
fulfil  her  promise." 

She  addressed  the  letter  to  Whitbury  ;  for  thither  Tom 
had  ordered  his  letters  to  be  sent ;  but  she  received  no 
answer. 

The  day  after  Mrs.  Harvey  was  buried,  the  sale  of  all  her 
effects  was  announced  in  Aberalva. 

Grace  received  the  proceeds,  went  round  to  all  the  credit- 
ors, and  paid  them  all  which  was  due.  She  had  a  few  pounds 
left.     What  to  do  with  that  she  knew  full  well. 

She  showed  no  sign  of  sorrow  ;  but  she  spoke  rarely  to 
any  one.  A  dead,  dull  weight  seemed  to  hang  over  her. 
To  preachers,  class-leaders,  gossips,  who  upbraided  her  for 
noi  letting  them  see  her  mother,  she  replied  by  silence. 
People  thought  her  becoming  idiotic. 

The  day  after  the  last  creditor  was  paid  she  packed  up 
her  little  box  :  hired  a  cart  to  take  her  to  the  nearest  coach, 
and  vanished  from  Aberalva,  without  bidding  farewell  to  a 
human  being,  even  to  her  school-children. 

*  *  *  .    *  * 

Vavasour  had  been  buried  more  than  a  week.  Mark  and 
Mar}'  were  sitting  in  the  dining-room,  Mark  at  his  port.,  and 
Mar>'  at  her  work,  when  the  footboy  entered. 


508  TOO   LATE. 

"  Sir,  there  's  a  young  womai.  wants  to  speak  with  you. 

"  Show  her  in,  if  she  U)oks  respectable,"  said  Mark,  who 
had  slippers  on,  and  his  feet  on  the  fender,  and  was,  there- 
fore, loath  to  move. 

"  0,  quite  respectable,  sir,  as  ever  I  see  ;  "  and  the  lad 
ushered  in  a  figure,  dressed  and  veiled  in  deep  black. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  sit  down,  pray  ;  and  what  can  1  do  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,"  answered  a  voice  of  extraordinaiy 
sweetness  and  gentleness,  very  firm  and  composed  withal, 
"  if  Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall  is  in  Whitbury  ?  " 

"  Thurnall  ?  He  has  sailed  for  the  East  a  week  ago. 
May  1  ask  your  business  with  him  ?  Can  1  help  you  in 
it?"" 

The  black  damsel  paused  so  long  that  l)oth  Mary  and  her 
father  felt  uneasy,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  Mark's  brow. 

"  Can  the  boy  have  been  playing  tricks  ?  "  said  he  to 
himself. 

"  Then,  sir,  as  I  hear  that  you  have  influence,  can  you  get 
me  a  situation  as  one  of  the  nurses  who  are  going  out 
thither,  so  1  hear  ?  " 

"  Get  you  a  situation?  Yes,  of  course,  if  you  are  com- 
petent." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Perhaps,  if  you  could  be  so  very  kind 
as  to  tell  me  to  whom  I  am  to  apply  in  town  ;  for  I  shall  go 
thither  to-night." 

"My  goodness!"  cried  Mark.  "Old  Mark  don't  do 
things  in  this  ofl-hand,  cold-blooded  way.  Let  us  know  who 
you  are,  my  dear,  and  about  Mr.  Thurnall.  Have  you  any- 
thing against  him  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  Mary,  just  step  into  the  next  room." 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  same  gentle  voice,  "  I  had 
Booner  that  the  lady  should  stay.  1  have  nothing  against 
Mr.  Thurnall,  God  knows.  He  has  rather  something  against 
me." 

Another  pause. 

Mary  rose,  and  went  up  to  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Do  tell  us  who  you  are,  and  if  we  can  do  anything  for 
you." 

And  she  looked  winningly  up  into  her  face. 

The  stranger  drew  a  long  breath,  and  lifted  her  veil. 
Mary  and  Mark  both  started  at  the  beauty  of  the  counte- 
nance which  she  revealed  —  but  in  a  diflferent  way.  Mark 
gave  a  grunt  of  approbation ;  Mary  turned  pale  as  death. 


TOO   LATE.  509 

"1  suppose  that  it  is  but  right  and  reasonable  that  1 
should  tell  you,  and  at  least  give  proof  of  my  being  an  hon- 
est person.  For  my  capabilities  as  a  nurse  —  I  believe  you 
know  Mrs.  Vavasour  ?  I  heard  that  she  has  been  staying 
here." 

"  Of  course.     Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

A  sad  smile  passed  over  her  face. 

"  Yes  ;  well  enough,  at  least,  for  her  to  speak  for  me.  I 
should  have  asked  her  or  Miss  St.  Just  to  help  me  to  a 
nurse's  place  ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  trouble  them  in  their 
distress.     How  is  the  poor  lady  now,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  know  who  she  is  1  "  cried  Mary,  by  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion, "  Is  not  your  name  Harvey  ?  Are  you  not  the  school- 
mistress who  saved  Mr.  Thurnall's  life  ?  —  who  behaved  so 
nobly  in  the  cholera  ?  Yes,  I  knew  you  were  !  Come  and 
sit  down,  and  tell  me  all !  I  have  so  longed  to  know  you  ? 
Dear  creature,  I  have  felt  as  if  you  were  my  own  sister. 
He  —  Mr.  Thurnall  —  wrote  often  about  all  your  heroism." 

Grace  seemed  to  choke  down  somewhat ;  and  then 
answered  steadfastly, — 

"  I  did  not  come  here,  my  dear  ladj',  to  hear  such  kind 
words,  but  to  do  an  errand  to  Mr.  Thurnall.  You  have 
heard,  perhaps,  that  when  he  was  wrecked,  last  spring,  he 
lost  some  money.  Yes  ?  Then,  it  was  stolen  !  Stolen  !  " 
she  repeated,  with  a  great  gasp  ;  "never  mind  by  whom  1 
Not  b}''  me  !  " 

"  You  need  not  tell  us  that,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Mark. 

"  God  kept  it.  And  I  have  it,  here  !  "  and  she  pressed 
her  hands  tight  over  her  bosom.  "  And  here  I  must  keep 
it  till  I  give  it  into  his  hands,  if  I  follow  him  round  the 
world  !  "  And  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  shone  in  the  lamplight 
with  an  unearthly  brilliance  which  made  Mary  shudder. 

Mark  irmsworth  poured  a  libation  to  the  goddess  of  Puz- 
an.dom,  in  the  shape  of  a  glass  of  port,  which  first  choked 
hira.  and  then  descended  over  his  clean  shirt-front.  But, 
afto:  he  had  coughed  himself  black  in  the  face,  he  began  : 

"  My  good  girl,  if  you  are  Grace  Harvey,  you  're  wel- 
come to  my  roof,  and  an  honor  to  it,  say  I  ;  but,  as  for 
taking  all  that  money  with  you  across  the  seas,  and  such  a 
pretty,  helpless  young  thing  as  you  are,  God  help  you,  it 
mustn't  be,  and  shan't  be,  and  that's  flat." 

"  But  I  must  go  to  him  !  "  said  she,  in  so  na'ive,  half-wild 
a  fashion,  that  Mary,  comprehending  all,  looked  imploringly 
at  her  father,  and,  putting  her  arm  round  Grace,  forced  hei 
into  a  seat. 

43* 


610  TOO    LATE. 

"  I  must  go,  sir,  and  tell  him  —  tell  him  myself.     No  one 
knows  what  I  know  about  it." 

Mark  shook  his  head. 

"  Could  I  not  write  to  him  ?  He  knows  me  as  well  as  he 
knows  his  own  fatlier." 

Grace  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  hand  upon  her 
heart,  where  Tom's  belt  lay. 

"  Do  you  think,  madam,  that,  after  having  had  the  dream 
of  this  belt,  the  sliape  of  this  belt,  and  of  the  money  which 
is  in  it,  branded  into  my  brain  for  months  —  years  it  seems 
like  —  by  God's  fire  of  shame  and  suspicion:  —  and  seen 
him  poor,  miserable,  fretful,  unbelieving,  for  the  want  of  it 
■ —  0  God  I  I  can't  tell  even  your  sweet  face  all ;  —  do  you 
think  that  now  I  have  it  in  my  hands,  I  can  part  with  it,  or 
rest,  till  it  is  in  his  !  No,  not  though  I  walked  barefoot 
after  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

"  Let  his  father  have  the  money,  then,  and  do  you  take 
him  the  belt  as  a  token,  if  you  must  —  " 

"That's  it,  Mary!"  shouted  Mark  Arm  s  worth  ;  "you 
always  come  in  with  the  right  hint,  girl  !  "  and  the  two, 
combining  their  forces,  at  last  talked  poor  Grace  over.  But 
upon  going  out  herself  she  was  bent.  To  ask  his  forgive- 
ness in  her  mother's  name,  was  her  one  fixed  idea.  He 
might  die,  and  not  know  all,  not  have  forgiven  all ;  and  go 
she  must. 

"  But  it  is  a  thousand  to  one  against  your  seeing  him. 
We,  even,  don't  know  exactly  where  he  is  gone." 

Grace  shuddered  a  moment ;  and  then  recovered  her 
calmness. 

"  I  did  not  expect  this  ;  but  be  it  so.  I  shall  meet  him  if 
God  wills  ;  and,  if  not,  I  can  still  work  —  work." 

"  I  think,  Mary,  you  'd  better  take  the  young  woman  up 
stairs,  and  make  her  sleep  here  to-night,"  said  Mark,  glad 
of  an  excuse  to  get  rid  of  them  ;  which,  when  he  had  done, 
he  pulled  his  chair  round  in  front  of  the  fire,  put  a  foot  on 
each  hob,  and  began  rubbing  his  eyes  vigorously. 

"  Dear  me  !  Dear  me  !  What  a  lot  of  good  people  there 
are  in  this  old  world,  to  be  sure  !  Ten  times  better  than 
me,  at  least —  make  one  ashamed  of  one's  self;  —  and,  if  one 
is  n't  even  good  enough  for  this  world,  how  's  one  to  be 
good  enough  for  heaven  ?  " 

And  Mary  carried  Grace  up  stairs,  and  into  her  own  bed- 
room. "  A  bed  should  be  made  up  tliore  for  her.  It  would 
do  her  good  just  to  have  anything  so  pretty  sleeping  in  the 
Bame  room."     And  then  she  got  Grace  supper,  and  tried  to 


TOO   LATE.  511 

make  her  talk  '  but  she  was  distrait,  reserved  ;  for  a  new 
and  sudden  dread  had  seized  her,  at  the  sight  oi"  that  fine 
house,  fine  plate,  fine  friends.  These  were  his  acquaint- 
ances, then  ;  no  wonder  that  he  would  not  look  on  such  as 
her.  And,  as  she  cast  her  eye  round  the  really  luxurious 
chamber,  and  (after  falteringly  asking  Mary  whether  she 
had  any  brothers  and  sisters),  guessed  that  she  must  be  the 
heiress  of  all  that  wealth,  she  settled  in  her  heart  that  Tom 
was  to  marry  Mary  ;  and  the  intimate  tone  in  which  Mary 
spoke  of  him  to  her,  and  her  innumerable  inquiries  about 
him,  made  her  more  certain  that  it  was  a  settled  thing. 
Handsome  she  was  not,  certainly  ;  but  so  sweet  and  good  ; 
and  that  her  own  beauty  (if  she  was  aware  that  she  pos- 
sessed any)  could  have  any  weight  with  Tom,  she  would 
have  considered  as  an  insult  to  his  sense  ;  so  she  made  up 
her  mind  slowly,  but  steadily,  that  thus  it  was  to  be  ;  and 
every  fresh  proof  of  Mary's  sweetness  and  goodness  was  a 
fresh  pang  to  her,  for  it  showed  the  more  how  probable  it 
was  that  Tom  loved  her. 

Therefore  she  answered  all  Mary's  questions  carefully 
and  honestly,  as  to  a  person  who  had  a  right  to  ask  ;  and 
at  last  went  to  her  bed,  and,  worn  out  in  body  and  mind, 
was  asleep  in  a  moment.  She  had  not  remarked  the  sigh 
which  escaped  Mary,  as  she  glanced  at  that  beautiful  head, 
and  the  long,  black  tresses  which  streamed  down  for  a 
moment  over  the  white  shoulders  ere  they  were  knotted 
back  for  the  night,  and  then  at  her  own  poor  countenance 
in  the  glass  opposite. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Grace  woke,  she  knew 
not  how,  and,  looking  up,  saw  a  light  in  the  room,  and  Mary 
sitting  still  over  a  book,  her  head  resting  on  her  hands.  She 
lay  quiet,  and  thought  she  heard  a  sob.  She  was  sure  she 
heard  tears  drop  on  the  paper.  She  stirred,  and  Mary  was 
at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"  Did  you  want  anything  ?  " 

"  Only  to  —  to  remind  you,  ma'am,  it  is  not  wise  to  sit 
up  so  late." 

"  Only  that  ?"  said  Mary,  laughing.  "  I  do  that  every 
night,  alone  with  God  ;  and  I  do  not  think  He  will  be  the 
further  off"  for  your  being  here  !  " 

"  One  thing  I  had  to  ask,"  said  Grace.  "It  would  lessen 
my  labor  so,  if  you  could  give  me  any  hint  of  where  he 
might  be." 


512  TOO   LATE. 

"  We  know,  as  we  told  you,  as  little  as  3'ou.  His  letters 
are  to  be  sent  to  Constantinople.  Some  from  Aberalva  are 
gone  thither  already." 

"  .And  mine  among  them  !  "  thought  Grace.  "  It  is  God's 
will'  ....  Madam,  if  it  would  not  seem  forward  on  my 
part  —if  you  could  tell  him  the  truth,  and  what  I  have  for 
iiim  and  where  I  am,  in  case  he  might  wish  —  wish  to  see 
me  —  when  you  were  writing." 

"  Of  course  I  will,  or  my  father  will,"  said  Mary,  who 
did  not  like  to  confess,  either  to  herself  or  to  Grace,  that  it 
was  very  improbable  that  she  would  ever  write  again  to 
Tom  Thurnall. 

And  so  the  two  sweet  maidens,  so  near  at  that  moment 
to  an  explanation,  which  might  have  cleared  up  all,  went  on 
each  in  her  ignorance  ;  for  so  it  was  to  be. 

The  next  morning  Grace  came  down  to  breakfast,  modest, 
cheerful,  charming.  Mark  made  her  breakfast  with  them  ; 
gave  her  endless  letters  of  recommendation  ;  wanted  to  take 
her  to  see  old  Doctor  Thurnall,  which  she  declined,  and  then 
sent  her  to  the  station  in  his  own  carriage,  paid  her  fare 
first-class  to  town,  and  somehow  or  other  contrived,  with 
Mary's  help,  that  she  should  find  in  her  bag  two  ten-pound 
notes,  which  she  had  never  seen  before.  After  which  he 
went  out  to  his  counting-house,  only  remarking  to  Mary,  — 

"  Very  extraordinary  young  woman,  and  very  handsome, 
too.  Will  make  some  man  a  jewel  of  a  wife,  if  she  don't  go 
mad,  or  die  of  the  hospital  fever." 

To  which  Mary  fully  assented.  Little  she  guessed,  and 
little  did  her  father,  that  it  was  for  Grace's  sake  that  Tom 
had  refused  her  hand. 

A  few  days  more,  and  Grace  Harvey  also  had  gone  East 
ward  Ho. 


CHAPTER     XXVII. 

A    RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN  ANCIENT    CRATER. 

It  is,  perhaps,  a  pity  for  the  human  race  in  general,  thai 
gome  enterprising-  company  cannot  buy  up  the  Moselle  (not 
the  wine,  but  the  river),  cut  it  into  five-mile  lengths,  and 
distribute  them  over  Europe,  wherever  there  is  a  demand 
for  lovely  scenery.  For  lovely  is  its  proper  epithet ;  it  is 
not  grand,  not  exciting —  so  much  the  better  ;  it  is  scenery 
to  live  and  die  in  ;  scenery  to  settle  in,  and  study  a  single 
landscape,  till  you  know  every  rock,  and  walnut-tree,  and 
vine-leaf  by  heart ;  not  merely  to  run  through  in  one  hasty 
steam-trip,  as  you  now  do,  in  a  long,  burning  day,  which 
makes  you  not  "drunk" — but  weary — "with  excess  of 
beauty."  Besides,  there  are  two  or  three  points  so  superior 
to  the  rest,  that,  having  seen  them,  one  cares  to  see  nothing 
more.  That  paradise  of  emerald,  purple,  and  azure,  which 
opens  behind  Treis  ;  and  that  strange  heap  of  old-world 
houses  at  Berncastel,  which  have  scrambled  up  to  the  top 
of  a  rock  to  stare  at  the  steamer,  and  have  never  been  able 
to  get  down  again  —  between  them,  and  after  them,  one 
feels  like  a  child  who,  after  a  great  mouthful  of  pine-apple 
jam,  is  condemned  to  have  poured  down  its  throat  an  ever- 
lasting stream  of  treacle. 

So  thought  Stangrave  on  boai'd  the  steamer,  as  he  smoked 
his  way  up  the  shallows,  and  wondered  which  turn  of  the 
river  would  bring  him  to  his  destination.  When  would  it 
all  be  over?  And  he  never  leaped  on  shore  more  joyfully 
than  he  did  at  Alf  that  afternoon,  to  jump  into  a  carriage, 
and  trundle  up  the  gorge  of  the  Issbach  some  six  lonely, 
weary  miles,  till  he  turned  at  last  into  the  wooded  caldron 
of  the  Romer-kessel,  and  saw  the  little  chapel  crowning  the 
central  knoll,  with  the  white  high-roofed  houses  of  Bertrich 
nestling  at  its  foot. 

He  drives  up  to  the  handsome  old  Kurhaus,  nestling  close 
beneath  heather-clad  rocks,  upon  its  lawn  shaded  with  huge 
horse-chestnuts,  and  set  round  with  dahlias,  and  geraniums, 
and  delicate-tinted  German  stocks,  which  fill  the  air  with 

(513) 


514     A    RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN   ANCIENT    CRATER. 

fragrance  ;  a  place  made  only  for  young  lovers  — certainly 
not  for  those  black-petticoated  worthies,  each  with  that 
Bham  of  a  sham,  the  modern  tonsure,  pared  down  to  a  poor 
florin's  breadth  among-  tlieir  bushy,  well-oiled  curls,  who  sit 
at  little  tables,  passing  the  lazy  day  a  mwjuetfer  les  bour- 
geoises of  Sarrebruck  and  Treves,  and  sipping  the  fragrant 
JoKcphshofer  —  perhaps  at  the  good  bourgeois's  expense. 

Past  them  Stangravo  slips  angrily:  lor  that  "  develop- 
ment of  humanity  "  can  find  no  favor  in  his  eyes  ;  being  not 
human  at  all,  but  professedly  superhuman,  and,  therefore, 
practically,  sometimes  inhuman.  He  hurries  into  the  pub- 
lic room  ;  seizes  on  the  visitor's  book. 

The  names  are  there,  in  their  own  handwriting,  but  where 
are  they  ? 

Waiters  are  seized  and  questioned.  The  English  ladies 
came  back  last  night,  and  are  gone  this  afternoon. 

"  Where  are  they  gone  ?  " 

Nobt)dy  recollects  ;  not  even  the  man  from  whom  they 
hired  the  carriage.  But  they  are  not  gone  far.  Their  ser- 
vants and  their  luggage  are  still  here.  Perhaps  the  Ilerr 
Ober-Badmeister,  Lieutenant  D  **  *  will  know.  "  0,  it  will 
not  trouble  him.  An  English  gentleman  ?  Der  Herr  Lieu- 
tenant will  be  only  too  happy  ;  "  and  in  ten  minutes  Der 
Herr  Lieutenant  appears,  really  only  too  happy  ;  and  Stan- 
grave  finds  himself  at  once  in  the  company  of  a  soldier  and 
a  gentleman.  Had  their  acquaintance  been  a  longer  one, 
he  would  have  recognize-d  likewise  the  man  of  taste  and  of 
piety. 

"  I  can  well  appreciate,  sir,"  says  he,  in  return  to  Stan- 
grave's  anxious  inquiries,  "your  impatience  to  rejoin  your 
lovely  countrywomen,  who  have  been  for  the  last  three 
weeks  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  our  little  paradise  ; 
and  whose  four  days'  absence  was  regretted,  believe  me,  as 
a  public  calamity." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it ;  but  they  are  not  countrywomen 
Df  mine.  The  one  lady  is  an  English  woman  ;  the  other,  I 
believe,  an  Italian." 

"And  Der  Herr?" 

"  An  American." 

"  Ah  ?  A  still  greater  pleasure,  sir.  I  trust  that  you 
will  carry  back  across  the  Atlantic  a  good  report  of  a  spot 
ill  but  unknown,  I  fear,  to  your  compatriots.  You  will 
meet  one,  I  think,  on  the  return  of  the  ladies." 

"  A  compatriot?  " 
Yes.     A  gentleman  who  arrived  here  this  morning,  and 


( ( 


A   RECENT   EXPLOSION  IN    AN   ANCIENT    CRATER.     515 

who  seemed,  from  his  conversation  with  them,  to  belong-  to 
youi"  noble  fatherland.  He  went  out  driving  with  thera 
this  afternoon,  whither  I  unfortunately  know  not.  Ah  ! 
good  Saint  Nicholas! — for,  though  1  am  a  Lutheran,  I 
must  invoke  him  now  —  look  out  yonder  !  '^ 

Stangrave  looked,  and  joined  in  the  general  laugh  of 
lieutenant,  waiters,  priests,  and  bourgeoises. 

For  under  the  chestnuts  strutted,  like  him  in  Struwelpe- 
tcr,  as  though  he  were  a  very  King'  of  Ashantee,  Sabina's 
black  boy,  who  had  taken  to  himself  a  scarlet  umbrella  and 
a  great  cigar;  while  after  him  came,  also  like  them  i^  Stru- 
welpeter,  Caspar,  bretzel  in  hand,  and  Ludwig  witli  his 
hoop,  and  all  the  naughty  boys  of  Bertrich  town,  hooting, 
and  singing  in  chorus,  after  the  fashion  of  German  children. 
The  resemblance  to  the  well-known  scene  in  the  German 
child's-book  was  perfect ;  and,  as  the  children  shouted,  — 

"  Ein  kohlpechrabenschwarzer  Mohr, 
Die  Sonue  schien  ihm  ins  gehirn, 
Da  nahm  er  seinen  Sonnenschirm  "  — 

more  than  one  grown  person  joined  therein, 

Stangrave  longed  to  catch  hold  of  the  boy,  and  extract 
from  him  all  news  ;  but  the  blackamoor  was  not  quite  in 
respectable  company  enough  at  that  moment ;  and  Stan- 
grave had  to  wait  till  he  had  strutted  proudly  up  to  the 
door,  and  entered  the  hall  with  a  bland  smile,  evidently 
having  taken  the  hooting  as  an  homage  to  his  personal 
appearance. 

"Ah!  Mas'  Stangrave?  glad  see  you,  sir!  Quite  a 
party  of  us,  now,  'mong  dese  'barian  heathen  foreigners. 
Mas'  Thurriall  he  come  dis  mornin'  ;  gone  up  pickin'  bush 
wid  de  ladies.     He  !  he  !  not  seen  him  dis  tree  year  afore." 

"  Thurnall !  "  Stangrave's  heart  sunk  within  him.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  order  a  carriage,  and  return  whence  he 
came ;  but  it  would  look  so  odd,  and,  moreover,  be  so  fool- 
ish, that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  stay  and  face  the  worst. 
So  he  swallowed  a  hasty  dinner,  and  then  wandered  up  the 
naTow  valley,  with  all  his  suspicions  of  Thurnall  and  Marie 
%eething  more  fiercely  than  ever  in  his  heart. 

Some  half  mile  up  a  path  led  out  of  the  main  road  to  a 
wooden  bridge  across  the  stream.  He  followed  it,  careless 
whither  he  went,  and  in  five  minutes  found  himself  in  the 
quaintest  little  woodland  cavern  he  ever  had  seen. 

It  was  simply  a  great  block  of  black  lava,  crowned  with 


51G     A    RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN   ANCIENT   CRATER. 

brusnwood,  and  supported  on  walls  and  pillars  of  Dutch 
cheeses,  or  what  should  have  been  Duteh  cheeses  by  all 
laws  of  shape  and  color,  had  not  his  fingers  proved  to  him 
that  they  were  stone.  How  they  got  there,  and  what  they 
were,  puzzled  him,  for  he  was  no  geologist  ;  and,  finding  a 
bench  inside,  he  sat  down  and  speculated  thereon. 

There  was  more  than  one  doorway  to  the  "  Cheese  Cel- 
lar." It  stood  beneath  a  jutting  knoll,  and  the  path  ran 
right  through  ;  so  that,  as  he  sat,  he  could  see  up  a  narrow 
gorge  to  his  left,  roofed  in  with  trees,  and  down  into  the 
main  valley  on  his  right,  where  the  Issbach  glittered  clear 
and  smooth  beneath  red-berried  mountain-ash  and  yellow 
leaves. 

There  he  sat,  and  tried  to  forget  Marie  in  the  tinkling  of 
the  streams,  and  the  sighing  of  the  autumn  leaves,  and  the 
cooing  of  the  sleepy  doves  ;  while  the  ice-bird,  as  the  Ger- 
mans call  the  water-ouzel,  sat  on  a  rock  in  the  river  below, 
and  warbled  his  low,  sweet  song,  and  then  flitted  up  the 
glassy  reach  to  perch  and  sing  again  on  the  next  rock 
above. 

And,  whether  it  was  that  he  did  forget  Marie  a  while, 
or  whether  he  were  tired,  as  he  well  might  have  been  ;  oi 
•whether  he  had  too  rapidly  consumed  his  bottle  of  red  Wal- 
porzheimer,  forgetful  that  it  alone  of  German  wines  com- 
bines the  delicacy  of  the  Rhine  sun  with  the  potency  of  its 
Burguiidian  vinestock,  transplanted  to  the  Ahr  by  Charle- 
magne ;  —  whether  it  were  any  of  these  causes,  or  whether 
it  were  not,  Stangrave  fell  fast  asleep  in  the  Kaise-kellar, 
and  slept  till  it  was  dark,  at  the  risk  of  catching  a  great 
cold. 

IIow  long  he  slept  he  knew  not ;  but  what  wakened  him 
he  knew  full  well.  Voices  of  people  approaching ;  and 
voices  which  he  recognized  in  a  moment. 

Sabina?  —  Yes;  and  Marie,  too,  laughing  merrily;  and 
among  their  shriller  tones  the  voice  of  Thurnall.  He  had 
not  licard  it  fur  j'ears  ;  but,  considering  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  had  last  heard  it,  there  was  no  fear  of  his 
forgetting  it  again. 

They  came  down  the  side  glen  ;  and,  before  he  could  rise, 
they  had  turned  the  sharp  corner  of  the  rock,  and  were  in 
the  Kaise-kellar,  close  to  him,  almost  touching  him.  He 
felt  the  awkwardness  of  his  position.  To  keep  still  was  to 
overhear,  and  that  too  much.  To  discover  himself  was  to 
produce  a  scene  ;  and  he  could  not  trust  his  temper  that  the 


A  RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER.   5J7 

Bceue  would  not  be  an  ugly  one,  and  such  as  women  must 
not  witness. 

He  was  relieved  to  find  that  they  did  not  stop.  They 
were  laughing  about  the  gloom  —  about  being  out  so  late. 

"How jealous  some  one  whom  I  know  would  be,"  said 
Sabina,  "  if  he  found  you  and  Tom  together  in  this  darksome 
den  !  " 

"I  don't  care!  "  said  Tom  ;  "I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  shoot  him  out  of  hand,  and  marry  Marie  myself.  Sha'n't 
],  now,  my  "  —  and  they  passed  on,  and  down  to  their  car- 
riage, which  had  been  waiting  for  them  in  tlie  road  below. 

What  Marie's  answer  was,  or  by  what  name  Thurnall 
was  about  to  address  her,  Stangrave  did  not  hear  ;  but  he 
had  heard  quite  enough. 

He  rose  quietly,  after  a  while,  and  followed  them. 

He  was  a  dupe,  an  ass  !  The  dupe  of  those  bad  women, 
and  of  his  ancient  enemy  !  It  was  maddening  !  Yet,  how 
could  Sabina  be  in  fault  ?  She  had  not  known  Marie  till  he 
himself  had  introduced  her  ;  and  he  could  not  believe  her 
capable  of  such  baseness.  The  ci'ime  must  lie  between  the 
other  two.     Yet  — 

However  that  might  be  mattered  little  to  him  now.  He 
would  return,  order  his  carriage  once  more,  and  depart, 
shaking  off  the  dust  of  his  feet  against  them.  "Pah! 
there  were  other  women  in  the  world  ;  and  women,  too, 
who  would  not  demand  of  him  to  become  a  hei'O." 

He  reached  the  Kurhaus,  and  went  in  ;  but  not  into  the 
public  room,  for  fear  of  meeting  people  whom  he  had  no 
heart  to  face. 

He  was  in  the  passage,  in  the  act  of  settling  his  account 
with  the  waiter,  when  Thurnall  came  hastily  out,  and  ran 
against  him. 

Stangrave  stood  by  the  passage-lamp,  so  that  he  saw 
Tom's  face  at  once. 

Tom  drew  back,  begged  a  thousand  pardons,  and  saw 
Stangrave's  face  in  turn. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  seconds. 
Stangrave  longed  to  say,  "  You  intend  to  shoot  me?  then 
try  at  once  ;  "  but  he  was  ashamed,  of  course,  to  make  use 
of  words  which  he  had  so  accidentally  overheard. 

Tom  looked  carefully  at  Stangrave,  to  divine  his  temper 
from  Lis  countenance.  It  was  quite  angry  enough  to  give 
Tom  excuse  for  saying  to  himself,  — 

"  The  fellow  is  mad  at  being  caught  at  last.    Very  well." 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  he,  quietly  enough,  "  that  you  ami  1 
44 


518     A   RECENT   EXPLOSION    IN   AN   ANCIENT    CRATER. 

had  better  walk  outside  for  a  few  minutes.  Allow  me  to 
retract  the  apology  I  just  made,  till  we  have  had  some  very 
cxplieit  conversation  on  other  matters." 

"Curse  his  impudence!"  thought  Stangrave.  "Does 
he  actually  mean  to  bully  me  into  marrying  her?"  And  he 
replied,  haughtily  enough,  — 

"  1  am  aware  of  no  matters  on  which  I  am  inclined  to  be 
explicit  with  Mr.  Tiiurnall,  or  on  which  Mr.  Thurnall  has  a 
right  to  be  explicit  with  me." 

"I  am,  then,"  quoth  Tom,  his  suspicion  increasing  in 
turn.  "  Do  you  wish,  sir,  to  have  a  scene  before  this  waiter, 
and  the  whole  house,  or  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  walk  out- 
side with  me  ?  " 

"  I  must  decline,  sir,  not  being  in  the  habit  of  holding 
intercourse  with  an  actress's  bully." 

Tom  did  not  knock  him  down,  but  replied,  smilingly 
enough,  — 

"1  am  far  too  much  in  earnest  in  this  matter,  sir,  to  be 
stopped  by  any  coarse  expressions.  Waiter,  you  may  go. 
Now,  will  you  fight  me  to-morrow  morning,  or  will  you 
not  ?  " 

"  I  may  fight  a  gentleman  ;  but  not  you." 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  call  you  a  coward,  because  I  know 
that  you  are  none  ;  and  I  shall  not  make  a  row  here,  for  a 
gentleman's  reasons,  which  you,  calling  yourself  a  gentle- 
man, seem  to  have  forgotten.  But  this  I  will  do  ;  I  will 
follow  you  till  you  do  fight  me,  if  I  have  to  throw  up  my 
own  prospects  in  life  for  it.  I  will  proclaim  you,  wherever 
we  meet,  for  what  you  are  —  a  mean  and  base  intriguer  ; 
I  will  insult  you  in  Kursaals,  and  cane  you  on  public  places; 
I  will  be  Frankenstein's  man  to  you  day  and  night,  till  I 
have  avenged  the  wrongs  of  this  poor  girl,  the  dust  of 
whose  feet  you  are  not  worthy  to  kiss  oflV 

Stangrave  was  surprised  at  his  tone.  It  was  certainly 
not  that  of  a  conscious  villain  ;  but  he  only  replied,  sneer-' 

"And  pray  what  may  give  Mr.  Thurnall  the  right  to 
consider  himself  the  destined  avenger  of  this  frail  beauty's 
wrongs  ?  " 

'•  1  will  tell  you  that  after  we  have  fought ;  and  somewhat 
m  ire.  Meanwhile,  that  expression,  '  frail  beauty,'  is  a  fresh 
offence,  for  which  I  should  certainly  cane  you,  if  she  were 
not  in  the  house." 

"  Well,"  drawled  Stangrave,  feigning  an  ostentatious 
yawn,  "  I   believe  the  wise  method  of  ridding  one's  self  of 


A   RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN    ANCIENT   CEATER.       519 

impertiuents  is  to  grant  their  requests.  Have  you  pistols  ? 
I  have  none." 

"  I  have  both  duellers  and  revolvers  at  your  service." 

"  Ah  !  I  think  we  '11  try  the  revolvers,  then,"  said  Stan- 
grave,  savage  from  despair,  and  disbelief  in  all  human 
goodness.  "  After  what  has  passed,  five  or  six  shots  apieOf 
will  be  hardly  outre. ^' 

"Hardly,  I  think,"  said  Tom.  "Will  you  name  your 
second  ?  " 

"  I  know  no  one.  I  have  not  been  here  two  hours  ;  but 
I  suppose  they  do  not  matter  much." 

"Humph  !  It  is  as  well  to  have  witnesses,  in  case  of 
accident.  There  are  a  couple  of  roystering  Burschen  in 
the  public  room,  who,  I  think,  would  enjoy  the  office. 
Both  have  scars  on  their  faces,  so  they  will  be  aufait  at  the 
thing.  Shall  I  have  the  honor  of  sending  one  of  them  to 
you  ?  " 

"As  you  will,  sir;  my  number  is  34."     And   the   two 

fools  turned  on  their  respective  heels,  and  walked  ofi". 
****** 

At  sunrise  next  morning  Tom  and  his  second  are  stand- 
ing on  the  Falkenhohe,  at  the  edge  of  the  vast  circular  pit, 
blasted  out  by  some  explosion  which  has  torn  the  slate  into 
mere  dust  and  shivers,  now  covered  by  a  thin  coat  of  turf. 

"  Schone  aussicht !  "  says  the  Bursch,  waving  his  hand 
round,  in  a  tone  which  is  benevolently  meant  to  withdraw 
Tom's  mind  from  painful  considerations. 

"  Very  pretty  prospect,  indeed.  You  're  sure  you  under- 
stand that  revolver  thoroughly  ?  " 

The  Bursch  mutters  to  himself  something  about  English 
nonchalance,  and  assures  Thurnall  that  he  is  competently 
acquainted  with  the  weapon,  as,  indeed,  he  ought  to  be  ; 
for,  having  never  seen  one  before,  he  has  been  talking  and 
thinking  of  nothing  else  since  they  left  Bertrich. 

And  why  does  not  Tom  care  to  look  at  the  prospect  ? 
Certainly  not  because  he  is  afraid.  He  slept  as  soundly  as 
ever  last  night,  and  knows  not  what  fear  means.  But, 
somehow,  the  glorious  view  reminds  him  of  another  glorious 
view,  which  he  saw  last  summer,  walking  by  Grace  Har- 
vey's side  from  Tolchard's  farm.  And  that  subject  he  will 
sternly  put  away.  He  is  not  sure  but  what  it  might  unman 
even  him. 

The  likeness  certainly  exists  ;  for  the  rock,  being  the 
same  in  both  places,  has  taken  the  same  general  form,  and 
the  wanderer  in  Rhine-Prussia  and  Nassau  might  often  fancy 


r)20       A   RECENT   EXPLOSION    IN   AN   ANCIENT    CRATER. 

nimself  in  Devon  or  Cornwall.  True,  here  there  is  no  sea, 
and  there  no  Mosel-kopf  raises  its  huge  crater-cone  fal 
above  the  uplands,  all  golden  in  the  level  sun.  But  that 
brown  Taunus  far  away,  or  that  brown  Ilundsruck  opposite, 
with  its  deep-wooded  gorges  barred  with  level  gleams  of 
light  across  black  gulfs  of  shade,  might  well  be  Dartmoor, 
or  Carcarrow  moor  itself,  high  over  Aberalva  town,  whidi 
he  will  see  no  more.  True,  in  Cornwall  there  would  be  no 
slag-clifts  of  the  Falkenley  beneath  his  feet,  as  black  and 
blasted  at  this  day  as  when  yon  orchard  meadow  was  the 
mouth  of  hell,  and  the  south-west  wind  dashed  the  great 
flame  against  the  cinder  cliff  behind,  and  forged  it  into 
walls  of  time-defying  glass.  But  that  might  well  be  Alva 
stream,  that  Issbach  in  its  green  gulf  far  below,  winding 
along  toward  the  green  gulf  of  the  Moselle  ;  —  he  will  look 
at  it  no  more,  lest  he  see  Grace  herself  come  to  him  across 
the  down,  to  chide  him,  with  sacred  horror,  for  the  dark 
deed  which  he  is  come  to  do. 

And  yet  he  does  not  wish  to  kill  Stangrave.  He  would 
like  to  "  wing  him."  He  must  punish  him  for  his  conduct 
to  Marie  ;  punish  him  for  last  night's  insult.  It  is  a  neces- 
sity, but  a  disagreeable  one  ;  he  would  be  sorry  to  go  to 
the  war  with  that  man's  blood  upon  his  hand.  He  is  sorry 
that  he  is  out  of  practice. 

"  A  year  ago  1  could  have  counted  on  hitting  him  whertf 
I  liked.  I  trust  I  shall  not  blunder  against  his  vitals  now 
However,  if  I  do,  he  has  himself  to  blame  !  " 

The  thought  that  Stangrave  may  kill  him  never  crosses 
his  mind.  Of  course,  out  of  six  shots,  fired  at  all  distances 
from  forty  paces  to  fifteen,  one  may  hit  him  ;  but  as  for 
being  killed  !   .   .   . 

Tom's  heart  is  hardened  ;  melted  again  and  again  this 
summer  for  a  moment,  only  to  freeze  again.  He  all  but 
believes  that  he  bears  a  charmed  life.  AH  the  miraculous 
escapes  of  his  past  years,  instead  of  making  him  believe  in 
a  living,  guiding,  protecting  Father,  have  become  to  that 
proud,  hard  heart  the  excuse  for  a  deliberate,  though  uncon- 
Bcious,  atheism.     His  fall  is  surely  near. 

At  last,  Stangrave  and  his  second  appear.  Stangrave  is 
haggard,  not  from  fear,  but  from  misery,  and  rage,  and  self- 
condomnation.  This  is  the  end  of  all  his  fine  resolves  1 
Pah  !  what  use  in  them  ?  What  use  in  being  a  martyr  in 
this  world  ?     All  men  are  liars,  and  all  women,  too  ! 

Tom  and  Stangrave  stand  a  little  apart  from  each  other, 
svhile  one  of  the  seconds  paced  the  distance.     He   steps 


A   RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN   ANCIENT    CRATER.       521 

out  away  from  them,  across  the  crater  floor,  carrying  Tom'a 
revolver  in  his  hand,  till  he  reaches  the  required  point,  and 
turns. 

He  turns  ;  but  not  to  come  back.  Without  a  gesture  or 
an  exclamation  which  could  explain  his  proceedings,  he 
faces  about  once  more,  and  rushes  up  the  slope  as  hard  as 
legs  and  wind  permitted. 

Tom  is  confounded  with  astonishment ;  either  the  Bursch 
is  seized  with  terror  at  the  whole  business,  or  he  covets  the 
much-admired  revolver  ;  in  eitlier  case,  he  is  making  off' 
with  it  before  the  owner's  eyes. 

"Stop!  Hillo  !  Stop  thief!  He's  got  my  pistol  ! " 
and  away  goes  Thurnall  in  chase  after  the  Bursch,  who, 
never  looking  behind,  never  sees  that  he  is  followed  ; 
while  Stangrave  and  the  second  Bursch  look  on  with  wide 
eyes. 

Now  the  Bursch  is  a  "  gymnast,"  and  a  capital  runner  ; 
and  so  is  Tom  likewise  ;  and  brilliant  is  the  race  upon  the 
Falkenhohe.  But  the  victory,  after  a  while,  becomes  alto- 
gether a  question  of  wind  ;  for  it  was  all  up-hill.  The  crater, 
being  one  of  "  explosion,  and  not  of  elevation,"  as  the  geol' 
ogists  would  say,  does  not  slope  downward  again,  save  on 
one  side,  from  its  outer  lip  ;  and  Tom  and  the  Bursch  were 
breasting  a  fair  hill,  after  they  had  emerged  from  the 
"  kessel "  below. 

Now  the  Bursch  had  had  too  much  Thronerhofberger 
the  night  before  ;  and,  possibly,  as  Burschen  will  in  their 
vacations,  the  night  before  that  also  ;  whereby  his  dia- 
phragm surrendered  at  discretion,  while  his  heels  were  yet 
unconquered,  and  he  suddenly  felt  a  strong  gripe,  and  a 
stronger  kick,  which  rolled  him  over  on  the  turf. 

The  hapless  youth,  who  fancied  himself  alone  upon  the 
mountain  tops,  roared  mere  incoherences,  and  Tom,  too 
angr}'  to  listen,  and  too  hurried  to  punish,  tore  the  revolver 
out  of  his  grasp,  whereon  one  barrel  exploded,  — 

"  I  have  done  it,  now  !  ^ 

No  ;  the  ball  had  luckily  buried  itself  in  the  ground. 

Tom  turned,  to  rush  down  hill  again,  and  meet  the  impa- 
tient Stangrave. 

Crack  —  whing — g  —  g  ! 

"A  bullet!" 

Yes  1  And,  prodigy  on  prodigy,  up  the  hill  towards  hioi 
charged,  as  he  would  upon  a  whole  army,  a  Prussian  gen- 
darme, with  ba3'onet  fixed. 

Tom  sat  down  UDon  the  mountain-side,  and  burst  into 
ii* 


522      A  EECENT    EXPLOSION  IN   AN   ANCIENT  CRATER. 

'nextinguishable  laughter,  while  the  gendarme  came  char^; 
ing  up,  right  toward  his  very  nose. 

But  up  to  his  nose  he  charged  not ;  for  his  wind  was  short, 
and  the  noise  of  his  roaring  went  before  him.  Moreover,  he 
knew  that  Tom  had  a  revolver,  and  was  a  "mad  English* 
man." 

Now,  he  was  not  afraid  of  Tom,  or  of  a  whole  army  ;  but 
he  was  a  man  of  drills  and  of  orders,  of  rules  and  of  prece- 
dents, as  a  Prussian  gendarme  ought  to  be  ;  and  for  the 
modes  of  attacking  infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery,  man, 
woman,  and  child,  thief  and  poacher,  stray  pig,  or  even  stray 
wolf,  he  had  drill  and  orders  sufficient ;  but  for  attacking  a 
Colt's  revolver,  none. 

Moreover,  for  arresting  all  manner  of  riotous  Burschen, 
drunken  boors,  French  red  Republicans,  Mazzini-hatted  Ital- 
ian refugees,  suspected  Polish  incendiaries,  orotheryeras  nOr- 
turce,  he  had  precedent  and  regulation  ;  but  for  arresting  a 
mad  Englishman,  none.  He  held  fully  the  opinion  of  his 
superiors,  that  there  was  no  saying  what  an  Englishman 
might  not,  could  not,  and  would  not  do.  He  was  a  sphinx, 
a  chimera,  a  lunatic  broke  loose,  who  took  unintelligible 
delight  in  getting  wet,  and  dirty,  and  tired,  and  starved, 
and  all  but  killed  ;  and  called  the  same  "  taking  exercise  ;  " 
—  who  would  see  everything  that  nobody  ever  cared  to  see 
and  who  knew  mysteriously  everything  about  everywhere  ; 
whose  deeds  were  like  his  opinions,  utterly  subversive  of 
all  constituted  order  in  heaven  and  earth  ;  being,  probably, 
the  inhabitant  of  another  planet  —  possibly  the  man  in  the 
moon  himself,  who  had  been  turned  out,  having  made  his 
native  satellite  too  hot  to  hold  him.  All  that  was  to  be  done 
with  him  was  to  inquire  whether  his  passport  was  correct, 
and  then  (with  a  due  regard  to  self-preservation)  to  endure 
his  vagaries  in  pitying  wonder. 

So  the  gendarme  paused  panting ;  and,  not  daring  to 
approach,  walked  slowly  and  solemnly  round  Tom,  keeping 
tlio  point  of  his  bayonet  carefully  towards  him,  and  roaring 
at  intervals,  — 

"  You  have  murdered  the  young  man  !  " 

"  But  I  have  not !  "  said  Tom.     "  Look  and  see." 

"But  I  saw  him  fall!" 

"  But  he  has  got  up  again,  and  run  away." 

"  So  !     Then  where  is  your  passport  ?  " 

That  one  other  fact,  cognizable  by  the  mind  of  a  Prussian 
gendarme,  remained  as  an  anchor  for  his  brains  under  the 


A  RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN   AN   ANCIENT  CRATER.      523 

new  and  trying  circumstances,  and  he  used  it.  "Ilerel" 
quoth  Tom,  pulling  it  out 

The  gendarme  stepped  cautiously  forward. 

"Don't  be  frightened.  I'll  stick  it  on  your  bayonet- 
point  ;  "  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Tom  caught  the 
bayonet-point,  put  the  passport  on  it,  and  pulled  out  his 
cigar-case. 

"  Mad  Englishman  !  "  murmured  the  gendarme.  "  So  ! 
The  passport  is  correct.  But  der  Herr  must  consider  him- 
self under  arrest.  Der  Herr  will  give  up  his  death-instrU' 
ment." 

"  By  all  means,"  says  Tom  ;  and  gives  up  the  revolver. 

The  gendarme  takes  it  very  cautiously  ;  meditates  a  while 
how  to  carry  it ;  sticks  the  point  of  his  bayonet  into  its 
muzzle,  and  lifts  it  aloft. 

"Schon!  Das  kriegt !  Has  der  Herr  anymore  death- 
instruments  ?  " 

"  Dozens  !  "  says  Tom,  and  begins  fumbling  in  his  pockets  ; 
from  whence  he  pulls  a  case  of  surgical  instruments,  another 
of  mathematical  ones,  another  of  lancets,  and  a  knife  with 
innumerable  blades,  saws,  and  pickers,  every  one  of  which 
he  opens  carefully,  and  then  spreads  the  whole  fearful  array 
upon  the  grass  before  him. 

The  gendarme  scratches  his  head  over  those  too  plain 
-proofs  of  some  tremendous  conspiracy. 

"  So  !  Man  must  have  a  dozen  hands  !  He  is  surely 
Palmerston  himself ;  or  at  least  Hecker,  or  Mazzini  I  "  mur- 
murs he,  as  he  meditates  how  to  stow  them  all. 

He  thinks  now  that  the  revolver  may  be  safe  elsewhere  ; 
and  that  the  knife  will  do  best  on  the  bayonet-point.  So  he 
unships  the  revolver. 

Bang  goes  barrel  number  two,  and  the  ball  goes  into  the 
turf  between  his  feet. 

"  You  will  shoot  yourself  soon,  at  that  rate,"  says  Tom. 

"So  I  Der  Herr  speaks  German  like  a  native,"  says  the 
gendarme,  growing  complimentary  in  his  perplexity.  "Per- 
haps der  Herr  would  be  so  good  as  to  carry  his  death-instru- 
ments himself,  and  attend  on  the  Herr  Polizeirath,  who  ia 
waiting  to  see  him." 

"  By  all  means  !  "  And  Tom  picks  up  his  tackle,  while  the 
prudent  gendarme  reloads  ;  and  Tom  marches  down  the  hill, 
the  gendarme  following,  with  his  bayonet  disagreeably  near 
the  small  of  Tom's  back. 

"  Don't  stumble  !  Look  out  for  the  stones,  or  you  '11  hav^ 
that  skewer  through  me  !  " 


524      A   RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN   ANCIENT    CRATER. 

"  So  I  Der  Herr  speaks  Germau  like  a  native,"  says  the 
gendarme,  civilly,  "  It  is  certainly  der  Palmerston,"  thinks 
he,   "  his  manners  are  so  polite." 

Once  at  the  crater  edge,  and  able  to  see  into  the  pit, 
the  mystery  is,  in  part,  at  least,  explained  ;  for  there  stand 
not  only  Stangrave  and  Bursch  number  two,  but  a  second 
gendarme,  two  elderly  gentlemen,  two  ladies,  and  a  black 
boy. 

One  is  Lieutenant  D  *  *  *,  by  his  white  moustache.  He 
is  lecturing  the  Bursch,  who  looks  suflSciently  foolish. 
The  other  is  a  portly  and  awful-looking  personage  in 
uniform,  evidently  the  Polizeirath  of  those  parts,  armed  with 
the  just  terrors  of  the  law.  But  Justice  has,  if  not  her  eyes 
bandaged,  at  least  her  hands  tied  ;  for  on  his  arm  hangs 
Sabina,  smiling,  chatting,  entreating.  The  Polizeirath 
smiles,  bows,  ogles,  evidently  a  willing  captive.  Venus  has 
disarmed  Rhadamanthus,  as  she  has  Mars  so  often  ;  and  the 
sword  of  justice  must  rust  in  its  scabbard. 

Some  distance  behind  them  is  Stangi-ave,  talking  in  a 
low  voice,  earnestly,  passionately,  —  to  whom  but  to  Marie  ? 

And  lastly,  opposite  each  other,  and  like  two  dogs  who 
are  uncertain  whether  to  make  friends  or  fight,  are  a  gen- 
darme and  Sabina's  black  boy.  The  gendarme,  with 
shouldered  musket,  is  trying  to  look  as  stiff'  and  cross  as 
possible,  being  scandalized  by  his  superior  officer's  defection 
from  the  path  of  duty  ;  and  still  more  by  the  irreverence  of 
the  black  boy,  who  is  dancing,  grinning,  snapping  his  fingers, 
in  delight  at  having  discovered  and  prevented  the  coming 
traged3^ 

Tom  descends,  bowing  courteously,  apologizes  for  having 
been  absent  when  the  highly  distinguished  gentlemen 
arrived  ;  and,  turning  to  the  Bursch,  begs  him  to  transmit  to 
his  friend  who  has  run  away  his  apologies  for  the  absurd  mis- 
take which  had  led  him  to,  etc.  etc. 

The  Polizeirath  looks  at  him  with  much  the  same  blank 
astonishment  as  the  gendarme  had  done  ;  and  at  last  ends 
by  lifting  up  his  hands,  and  bursting  into  an  enormous  Ger 
man  laugh  ;  and  no  one  on  earth  can  laugh  as  a  German 
can,  so  genially  and  lovingly,  and  with  such  intense  self- 
enjoyment. 

"  0,  you  English  !  you  English  !  You  are  all  mad,  I 
think  !  Nothing  can  shame  you,  and  nothing  can  frighten 
you  !  Potz  !  1  believe  when  your  Guards  at  Alma  walked 
into  that  battery,  the  other  day,  every  one  of  them  was 
whistling  your  Jim   Crow,  even  after  he  was  shot  dead  !  " 


A   RECENT   EXPLOSION  IN   AN   ANCIENT   CEATER.     525 

And  the  jolly  Polizeirath  laughed  at  his  own  joke  till  the 
mountain  rang.  "  But  you  must  leave  the  country,  sir  ; 
indeed  you  must.  We  cannot  permit  such  conduct  here  —  I 
am  verj'^  sony." 

"  I  entreat  you  not  to  apologize,  sir.  In  any  case,  1 
was  going  to  Alf  by  eight  o'clock,  to  meet  the  steamer 
for  Treves.  I  am  on  m}^  way  to  the  war  in  the  East,  via 
Marseilles.  If  you  would,  therefore,  be  so  kind  as  to  allow 
the  gendarme  to  return  me  that  second  revolver,  which  also 
belongs  to  me  —  " 

"  Give  him  his  pistol  !  "  shouted  the  magistrate.  "  Potz  ! 
Let  us  be  rid  of  him  at  any  cost,  and  live  in  peace,  like 
honest  Germans.  Ah,  poor  Queen  Victoria  !  What  a  lot  1 
To  have  the  go'fternment  of  five-and-twenty  million  such  !  " 

"  Not  five-and-twenty  millions,"  says  Sabina.  "  That 
would  include  the  ladies  ;  and  we  are  not  mad  too,  surely, 
your  Excellency  ?  " 

The  Polizeirath  likes  to  be  called  your  Excellency,  of 
course,  or  any  other  mighty  title  which  does  or  does  not 
belong  to  him  ;  and  that  Sabina  knows  full  well. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  madam,  how  do  I  know  that  ?  The  English, 
ladies  do  every  day  here  what  no  other  dames  would  dare  or 
dream  —  what,  then,  must  you  be  at  home?  Ach  !  your 
poor  husbands  !  " 

"  Mr.  Thurnall ! "  calls  Marie,  from  behind.  "  Mr. 
Thurnall  !  " 

Tom  comes,  with  a  quaint,  dogged  smile  on  his  face. 

"You  see  him,  Mr.  Stangrave  !  You  see  the  man  who 
risked  for  me  liberty,  life,  —  who  rescued  me  from  slavery, 
shame,  suicide,  —  who  was  to  me  a  brother,  a  father,  for 
years! — witliout  whose  disinterested  heroism  you  would 
never  have  set  ej^es  on  the  face  which  you  pretend  to  love. 
And  you  repay  him  by  suspicion  —  insult.  Apologize  to 
him,  sir  !  Ask  his  pardon  now,  here,  utterly,  humbly  ;  or 
never  speak  to  Marie  Lavington  again  I" 

Tom  looked  first  at  her,  and  then  at  Stangrave.  Marie 
was  convulsed  with  excitement ;  her  thin  cheeks  were  crim- 
Don,  her  eyes  flashed  very  flame.  Stangrave  was  pale  — 
calm  outwardly,  but  evidently  not  within.  lie  was  looking 
on  the  ground,  in  thought  so  intense  that  he  hardly  seemed 
to  hear  Marie.  Poor  fellow  !  he  had  heard  enough  in  the 
last  ten  minutes  to  bewilder  any  brain. 

A.t  last  he  seemed  to  have  strung  himself  for  an  effort,  and 
spoke,  without  looking  up. 

••Mr.  Thurnall!" 


526  A  RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 

"Sir?" 

"  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong  !  " 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  it,  sir.  It  ^ra8  a  mistake  ; 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  complicate  the  question.  My  true 
ground  of  quarrel  with  you  is  your  conduct  to  Miss  Laving- 
ton.  She  seems  to  have  told  you  her  true  name,  so  I  shall 
call  her  by  it." 

"  What  I  have  done,  I  have  undone!"  said  Stangrave, 
looking  up.  "  If  I  have  wronged  her,  I  have  offered  to  right 
her ;  if  I  have  left  her,  I  have  sought  her  again  ;  and  if  I  left 
her  when  I  knew  nothing,  now  that  I  know  all,  I  ask  her 
here,  before  you,  to  become  my  wife  !  " 

Tom  looked  inquiringly  at  Marie. 

"Yes  ;  I  have  told  him  all  —  all !  "  and  ^he  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  "  Mr.  Stangrave  is  a  very  enviable 
person  ;  and  the  match,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  is  a  most 
fortunate  one  for  Miss  Lavington  ;  and  that  stupid  rascal  of 
a  gendarme  has  broken  my  revolver." 

"  But  I  have  not  accepted  him,"  cried  Marie  ;  "  and  I  will 
not,  unless  you  give  me  leave." 

Tom  saw  Stangrave's  brow  lower,  and  pardonably  enough, 
at  this. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Lavington,  as  I  have  never  been  able  to 
settle  my  own  love  affairs  satisfactorily  to  myself,  I  do  not 
feel  at  all  competent  to  settle  other  people's.  Good-by  I  I 
shall  be  late  for  the  steamer."  And,  bowing  to  Stangrave 
and  Marie,  he  turned  to  go. 

"  Sabina  !  Stop  him  !  "  cried  she  ;  "  he  is  going,  without 
even  a  kind  word  !  " 

"  Sabina,"  whispered  Tom,  as  he  passed  her,  —  "a  bad 
business  —  selfish  coxcomb!  when  her  beauty  goes,  won't 
stand  her  temper  and  her  flightiness ;  but  I  know  you  and 
Claude  will  take  care  of  the  poor  thing,  if  anything  happens 
to  me." 

"  You  're  wrong  —  prejudiced  —  indeed  1 " 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!  Good-by,  you  sweet  little  sunbeam! 
Good-morning,  gentlemen  !  " 

And  Tom  hurried  up  the  slope  and  out  of  sight,  while 
Marie  burst  into  an  agony  of  weeping. 

"  Gone,  without  a  kind  word  !  " 

Stangrave  bit  his  lip,  not  in  anger,  but  in  manly  self- 
reproach. 

"  It  is  my  fault,  Marie  !  my  fault !  He  knew  me  too  well 
of  (  Id,  and  had  too  much  reason  to  despise  me  !     But  he 


A    RECENT   EXPLOSION   IN   AN   ANCIENT   CRATEE.      527 

shall  have  reason  no  longer.  He  will  come  back,  and  find 
me  worthy  of  you  ;  and  all  will  be  forgotten.  Again  I  say 
it,  I  accept  your  quest,  for  life  and  death.  So  help  me  God 
above,  as  I  will  not  ftiil  or  falter,  till  I  have  won  justice  foi 
you  and  for  your  race  !     Marie  ?  " 

He  conquered  ;  —  how  could  he  but  conquer  ?  for  he  wa& 
man,  and  she  was  woman  ;  and  he  looked  more  noble  in  her 
eyes,  while  he  was  confessing  his  past  weakness,  than  he 
had  ever  done  in  his  proud  assertion  of  strength. 

But  she  spoke  no  word  in  answer.  She  let  him  take  her 
hand,  pass  her  arm  through  his,  and  lead  her  away,  as  one 
who  had  a  right. 

They  walked  down  the  hill  behind  the  rest  of  the  party, 
blest,  but  silent  and  pensive  ;  he  with  the  weight  of  the 
future,  she  with  that  of  the  past. 

"  It  is  veiy  wonderful,"  she  said,  at  last.  "Wonderful 
.  .  .  that  you  can  care  for  me.  .  .  .  0,  if  I  had  known  how 
noble  you  were,  I  should  have  told  you  all  at  once." 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  been  as  ignoble  as  ever,"  said 
Stangrave,  "  if  that  young  English  viscount  had  not  put  me 
on  my  mettle  by  his  own  nobleness." 

"  No,  no  !  Do  not  belie  yourself.  You  know  what  he  does 
not ;  what  I  would  have  died  sooner  than  tell  him." 

Stangrave  drew  the  arm  closer  through  his,  and  clasped 
the  hand.     Marie  did  not  withdraw  it. 

"  Wonderful,  wonderful  love  !  "  she  said,  quite  humbly. 
Her  theatric  passionateuess  had  passed  ;  — 

"  Nothing  was  left  of  her, 
Now,  but  pure  womanly." 

"  That  you  can  love  me  —  me,  the  slave  ;  me,  the  scourged  ; 
me,  the  scarred  —  0,  Stangrave  !  it  is  not  much  —  not  much 
really  ;  only  a  little  mark  or  two.  ..." 

"  I  will  prize  them,"  he  answered,  smiling  through  tears, 
"more  than  all  your  loveliness.  I  will  see  in  them  God's 
commandment  to  me,  written  not  on  tables  of  stone,  but  on 
fair,  pure,  noble  flesh.  My  Marie  !  You  shall  have  cause 
even  to  rejoice  in  them  !  " 

"  I  glory  in  them  now ;  for,  without  them,  I  never  should 
have  known  all  your  worth." 

He  H:  >l<  4:  ^ 

The  next  day  Stangrave,  Marie,  and  Sabina  were  hurrying 
home  to  England ;  while  Tom  Thurnall  was  hurrying  to 
Marseilles,  to  vanish  Eastward  Ho. 

He  has  escaped  once  more  ;  but  his  heart  is  hardened  still. 
What  will  his  fall  be  like  ? 


CHAPTER     XXVIII, 

LAST   CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

And  novr  two  years  and  more  are  past  and  gone  ;  and  all 
whose  lot  it  was  have  come  Westward  IIo  once  more,  sad- 
der and  wiser  men  to  their  lives'  end  :  save  one  or  two,  that 
is,^  from  whom  not  even  Solomon's  pestle  and  mortar  disci- 
pline would  pound  out  the  innate  folly. 

Frank  has  come  liome,  stouter  and  browner,  as  well  as 
heartier  and  wiser,  than  he  went  forth.  lie  is  Valencia's 
husband  now,  and  rector,  not  curate,  of  Aberalva  town  ;  and 
Valencia  makes  him  a  noble  rector's  wife. 

She,  too,  has  had  her  sad  experiences  ;  —  of  more  than 
absent  love  ;  for  when  the  news  of  Inkerman  arrived,  she 
was  sitting-  by  Lucia's  death-bed  ;  and  when  the  ghastly  list 
came  home,  and  with  it  the  news  of  Scoutbush  "severely 
wounded  by  a  musket-ball,"  she  had  just  taken  her  last  look 
of  the  fair  face,  and  seen  in  fancy  the  fair  spirit  greeting  in 
the  eternal  world  the  soul  of  him  whom  she  loved  unto  the 
death.  She  had  hurried  out  to  Scutari,  to  nurse  her  brother  ; 
had  seen  there  many  a  sight  —  she  best  knows  what  she 
saw.  She  sent  Scoutbush  back  to  the  Crimea,  to  try  his 
chance  once  more  ;  and  then  came  home  to  be  a  mother  to 
those  three  orphan  children,  from  whom  she  vowed  never  to 
part.  So  the  children  went  with  Frank  and  her  to  Aberalva, 
and  Valencia  had  learnt  half  a  mother's  duties,  ere  she  had 
a  baby  of  her  own. 

And  thus  to  her,  as  to  all  hearts,  has  the  war  brought  a 
discipline  from  Heaven. 

Fraidc  shrank  at  first  from  returning  to  Aberalva,  when 
Scoutbush  ofiered  him  the  living  on  old  St.  Just's  death. 
But  Valencia  all  but  commanded  him;  so  he  went.  And, 
behold,  his  return  was  a  triumph. 

All  was  understood  now,  all  forgiven,  all  forgotten,  save 
h:s  conduct  in  the  cholera,  by  the  loving,  honest,  brave 
West  country  hearts  ;  and  when  the  new-married  pair  were 
rungf  into  the  town,  amid  arches  and  garlands,  Hags  and 

(528) 


LAdT    CHRISTMAS    EVE.  52iJ 

bonfires^  the  first  man  to  welcome  Frank  into  his  rectory 
was  old  Tardrew. 

Not  a  word  of  repentance  or  apology  ever  passed  the  old 
bull-dog's  lips.  He  was  an  Englishman,  and  kept  his  opin- 
ions to  himself.  But  he  had  had  his  lesson  like  the  rest, 
two  years  ago,  in  his  young  daughter's  death  ;  and  Frank 
had  thenceforth  no  faster  friend  than  old  Tai-drew. 

Frank  is  still  as  High  Church  as  ever,  and  hkes  all  pomp 
and  circumstance  of  worship.  Some  i'ew  whims  he  has 
given  up,  certainly,  for  fear  of  giving  offence  ;  but  he  might 
indulge  them  once  more,  if  he  wished,  without  a  quarrel  ; 
for,  now  that  the  people  understood  him,  he  does  just  what 
he  likes.  His  congregation  is  the  best  in  the  archdeaconry ; 
one  meeting-house  is  dead,  and  the  other  dying.  His  choir 
is  admirable  ;  for  Valencia  has  liad  the  art  of  drawing  to  her 
all  the  musical  talent  of  the  tuneful  West  country  folk  ;  and 
all  that  he  needs,  he  thinks,  to  make  his  parish  perl'ect,  is  to 
see  Grace  Harvey  schoolmistress  once  more. 

What  can  have  worked  the  change  ?  It  is  difficult  to  say. 
unless  it  be  that  Frank  has  found  out,  from  cholera  and  hos- 
pital experiences,  that  liis  parishioners  are  beings  of  like  pas- 
sions with  himself:  and  found  out,  too,  that  his  business  is 
to  leave  the  Gospel  of  damnation  to  those  whose  hapless  lot 
it  is  to  earn  their  bread  by  pandering  to  a  popular  supersti- 
tion; and  to  <  niploy  his  independent  position,  as  a  free  rector, 
in  telling  his  people  the  Gospel  of  salvation  —  that  they  have 
a,  Father  in  heaven. 

Little  Scoutbush  comes  down  often  to  Aberalva  now,  and 
oftcner  to  his  Irish  estates.  He  is  going  to  marry  the  Man- 
chester lady  after  all,  and  to  settle  down  ;  and  try  to  be  a 
good  landlord  ;  and  use  for  the  benefit  of  his  tenants  the 
sharp  experience  of  human  hearts,  human  sorrows,  and 
human  duty,  which  he  gained  in  the  Crimea  two  years  ago. 

And  Major  Campbell  ? 

Look  on  Cathcart's  Hill.  A  stone  is  there,  which  is  the 
only  earthly  token  of  that  great  experience  of  all  experiences 
which  Campbell  gained  two  years  ago. 

A  little  silk  bag  was  found,  hung  round  his  neck,  and  Ij'ing 
next  his  heart.  He  seemed  to  have  expected  his  death  ;  for 
he  had  put  a  label  on  it,  — 

"To  be  sent  to  Viscount  Scoutbush,  for  Miss  St.  Just." 

Scoutbush  sent  it  home  to  Valencia,  who  opened  it,  blind 
with  tears. 

It  was  a  note,  written  seven  years  before,  but  not  by  her  ; 
by  Lucia  ere  her  marriage.    A  simple  invitation  to  dinner  in 
45 


530  LAST    CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

Eaton  Square,  written  for  Lady  Knockdown,  but  with  a  post 
Bcnpt  from  Lucia  herself:  "  Do  come,  and  I  will  promise  not 
to  tease  you  as  I  did  last  night." 

That  was,  perhaps,  the  only  kind  or  familiar  word  which 
he  had  ever  had  from  his  idol ;  and  he  had  treasured  it  to 
the  last.  Women  can  love,  as  this  book  sets  forth  ;  but  now 
and  then  men  can  love  too,  if  they  be  men,  as  Major  Camp- 
bell was. 

And  Trebooze  of  Trebooze  ? 

Even  Trebooze  got  his  new  lesson  two  years  ago.  Terri- 
fied into  sobriety,  he  went  into  the  militia,  and  soon  took 
delight  therein.  He  worked,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
early  and  late,  at  a  work  which  was  suited  for  him.  He 
soon  learnt  not  to  swear  and  rage,  for  his  men  would  not 
stand  it ;  and  not  to  get  drunk,  for  his  messmates  would  not 
stand  it.  lie  got  into  better  society  and  better  health  than 
he  ever  had  had  before.  With  new  self-discipline  has  come 
new  self-respect ;  and  he  tells  his  wife  frankly,  that,  if  he 
keeps  straight  henceforth,  he  has  to  thank  for  it  his  six 
months  at  Aldershott. 

And  Mary  ? 

When  you  meet  Mary  in  heaven,  you  can  ask  her  there. 

But  Frank's  desire,  that  Grace  should  become  his  school- 
mistress once  more,  is  not  fulfilled. 

How  she  woi'ked  at  Scutari  and  at  Balaklava,  there  is  no 
need  to  tell.  Why  mark  her  out  from  the  rest,  when  all 
did  more  than  nobly  ?  The  lesson  which  she  needed  was 
not  that  which  hospitals  could  teach  ;  she  had  learnt  tha.< 
already.  It  was  a  deeper  and  more  dreadful  lesson  still. 
She  had  set  her  heart  on  finding  Tom  ;  on  righting  him,  on 
righting  herself  She  had  to  learn  to  be  content  not  to  find 
him  ;  not  to  right  him,  not  to  right  herself. 

And  she  learnt  it.  Tearless,  uncomplaining,  she  "  trusted 
in  God,  and  made  no  haste."  She  did  her  work,  and  read 
her  Bible  ;  and  read  too,  again  and  again,  at  stolen  mo- 
ments of  rest,  a  book  which  some  one  lent  her,  and  which 
was  to  her  as  the  finding  of  an  unknown  sister —  Longfel- 
low's Evangeline.  She  was  Evangeline  ;  seeking  as  she 
sought,  perhaps  to  find  as  she  found  —  No  !  merciful  God  ! 
Not  so  !  yet  better  so  than  not  at  all.  And  often  and  often, 
when  a  new  freight  of  agony  was  landed,  she  looked  round 
from  bed  to  bed,  if  his  face,  too,  might  be  there.  And 
once,  at  Balaklava,  she  knew  she  saw  him  ;  but  not  on  a 
sick  bed. 

Standing  beneath  the  window,  chatting  merrily  with  a 


LAST   CHEISTMAS   EVE.  531 

^roup  of  officers  —  It  was  he!  Could  she  mistake  that 
figure,  though  the  face  was  turned  away  ? 

Her  head  swam,  her  pulses  beat  like  church-bells,  her 
eyes  were  ready  to  burst  from  their  sockets.  But — she 
was  assisting  at  an  operation.  It  was  God's  will,  and  she 
must  endure. 

When  the  operation  was  over,  she  darted  wildly  down 
the  stairs  without  a  word. 

He  was  gone. 

Without  a  word  she  came  back  to  her  work,  and  pos- 
eessed  her  soul  in  patience. 

Inquiries,  indeed,  she  made,  as  she  had  a  right  to  do ; 
but  no  one  knew  the  name.  She  questioned,  and  caused 
to  be  questioned,  men  from  Varna,  from  Sevastopol, 
from  Kertch,  from  the  Circassian  coast ;  English,  French, 
and  Sardinian,  Pole,  and  Turk.  No  one  had  ever  heafd 
the  name.  She  even  found  at  last,  and  questioned,  one  of 
the  officers  who  had  formed  that  group  beneath  the  window. 

"  0,  that  man  ?  He  was  a  Pole,  Michaelowyzcki,  or  some 
such  name.  At  least,  so  he  said  ;  but  he  suspected  the  man 
to  be  really  a  Russian  spy." 

Grace  knew  that  it  was  Tom ;  but  she  went  back  to  her 
work  again,  and  in  due  time  went  home  to  England. 

Home,  but  not  to  Aberalva.  She  presented  herself  one 
day  at  Mark  Armsworth's  house  in  Whitbury,  and  humbly 
begged  him  to  obtain  her  a  place  as  servant  to  old  Doctor 
Thurnall.  What  her  purpose  was  therein  she  did  not  ex- 
plain ;  perhaps  she  hardly  knew  herself. 

Jane,  the  old  servant  who  had  clung  to  the  doctor  through 
his  reverses,  was  growing  old  and  feeble,  and  was  all  the 
more  jealous  of  an  intruder  ;  but  Grace  disarmed  her. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  interfere  ;  I  will  be  under  your  orders. 
I  will  be  kitchen-maid  —  maid-of-all-work.  I  want  no  wages. 
I  have  brought  home  a  little  money  with  me  ;  enough  to  last 
me  for  the  little  while  I  shall  be  here." 

And,  by  the  help  of  Mark  and  Mary,  she  took  up  her 
abode  in  the  old  man's  house ;  and,  ere  a  month  was  past, 
ehe  was  to  him  as  a  daughter. 

Perhaps  she  had  told  him  all.  At  least,  there  was  some 
deep  and  pure  confidence  between  them  ;  and  yet  one  which, 
80  perfect  was  Grace's  humility,  did  not  make  old  Jane  jeal- 
ous. Grace  cooked,  swept,  washed,  went  to  and  fro  as 
Jane  bid  her  ;  submitted  to  all  her  grumblings  and  tossings  ; 
and  then  came  at  the  old  man's  bidding  to  read  to  him  every 
ivening,  her  hand  in  his;  her  voice  cheerful,  her  face  ful 


532  LAST   CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

of  quiet  light.     But  her  hair  was  becoming  fjtreaked  with 

gray.     Her  face,  howsoever  gentle,  was  sharpened,  as  if 

with  continual  pain.     No  wonder ;  for  she  had  worn  that 

belt  next  her  heart  for  now  two  years  and  more,  till  it  had 

almost  eaten  into  the  heart  above  which  it  lay.     It  gave  her 

perpetual  pain  ;  and  yet  that  pain  was  a  perpetual  joy  —  a 

perpetual  remembrance  of  him,  and  of  that  walk  with  hiip 

from  Tolchard's  farm. 

Mary  loved  her  —  wanted  to  treat  her  as  an  equal — t« 

call  her  sister ;  but  Grace  drew  back  lovingly,  but  humbly 

from  all  advances  ;  for  she  had  divined  Mary's  secret  witl 

the  quick  eye  of  woman  ;  she  saw  how  Mary  grew  dailj 

paler,  thinner,   sadder,   and  knew  for  whom  she  mourned. 

Be  it  so  ;  Mary  had  a  right  to  him,  and  she  had  none. 
***** 

And  where  was  Tom  Thuruall  all  the  while  ? 

No  man  could  tell. 
.    Mark  inquired  ;    Lord   Minchampstead   inquired  ;    great 
personages  who  had  need  of  him  at  home  and  abroad  in 
quired  ;  but  all  in  vain. 

A  lew  knew,  and  told  Lord  Minchampstead,  who  told 
Mark,  in  confidence,  that  he  had  been  heard  of  last  in  the 
Circassian  mountains  about  Christmas,  1854  ;  but  since  then 
all  was  blank.     He  had  vanished  into  the  infinite  unknown. 

Mark  swore  that  he  would  come  home  some  day  ;  but  two 
full  years  were  past,  and  Tom  came  not. 

The  old  man  never  seemed  to  regret  him ;  never  men- 
tioned his  name  after  a  while. 

"  Mark,"  he  said  once,  "  remember  David.  Why  weep  for 
the  child  ?     I  shall  go  to  him,  Imt  he  will  not  come  to  me." 

None  knew,  meanwhile,  why  the  old  man  needed  not  to 

talk  of  Turn  to  his  friends  and  neighbors  ;  it  was  because 

he  and  Gi'ace  never  talked  of  anything  else. 

***** 

So  they  had  lived  and  so  they  had  waited,  till  that  week 
before  last  Christmas-day,  when  Mcllot  and  Stangrave  made 
their  appearance  in  Whitbury,  and  became  Mark  Arms- 
worth's  guests. 

Tlic  week  slipped  on.  Stangrave  hunted  on  alternate 
days  :  and  on  the  others  went  with  Claude,  who  photo- 
graphed (when  there  was  sun  to  do  it  with)  Stangrave  End, 
and  NVhitford  Priory,  interiors  and  oxt(M"iors  ;  not  forgetting 
the  Stangrave  monuments  in  Whitbuiy  church  :  and  sat, 
too,  for  many  a  pleasant  liour  with  the  good  doctor,  who 
took  to  him   at  once,  as  all  men  did.     It  seemed  to  give 


LAST    CHRISTMAS    EVE.  533 

fresh  life  to  the  old  man  to  listen  to  Tom's  dearest  friend. 
To  him,  as  to  Grace,  he  could  talk  openly  about  the  lost 
sou,  and  live  upon  the  memory  of  his  prowess  and  his  vir- 
tues ;  and  ere  the  week  was  out,  the  doctor,  and  Grace  too, 
had  heard  a  hundred  gallant  feats,  to  tell  all  which  would 
add  another  volume  to  this  book. 

And  Grace  stood  silently  by  the  old  man's  chair,  and 
drank  all  in  without  a  smile,  without  a  sigh,  but  not  without 

full  many  a  prayer. 

***** 

It  is  the  blessed  Christmas  eve  ;  the  light  is  failing  fast ; 
when  down  the  high  street  comes  the  mighty  Roman-nosed 
rat-tail  which  carries  Mark's  portly  bulk,  and  by  him  Stan- 
grave,  on  a  right  good  horse. 

They  shog  on  side  by  side  —  not  home,  but  to  the  doc- 
tor's house.  For  every  hunting  evening  Mark's  groom 
meets  him  at  the  doctor's  door  to  lead  the  horses  home, 
while  he,  before  he  will  take  his  bath  and  dress,  brings  tc 
his  blind  friend  the  gossip  of  the  field,  and  details  to  him 
every  joke,  fence,  find,  kill,  hap,  and  mishap,  of  the  last  six 
hours. 

The  old  man,  meanwhile,  is  sitting  quietly,  with  Claude 
by  him,  talking  —  as  Claude  can  talk.  They  are  not  speak- 
ing of  Tom  just  now ;  but  the  eloquent  artist's  conversa- 
tion suits  well  enough  the  temper  of  the  good  old  man, 
yearning  after  fresh  knowledge,  even  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave,  but  too  feeble  now,  in  body  and  in  mind,  to  do  more 
than  listen.  Claude  is  teUing  him  about  the  late  Photo- 
graphic Exhibition  ;  and  the  old  man  listens  with  a  trium- 
phant smile  to  wonders  which  he  will  never  behold  with 
mortal  eyes.     At  last,  — 

"This  is  very  pleasant  —  to  feel  surer  and  surer,  day  by 
day,  that  one  is  not  needed  ;  that  science  moves  forward 
swift  and  sure,  under  a  higher  guidance  than  one's  own  ; 
that  the  sacred  torch-race  never  can  stand  still ;  that  He 
has  taken  the  lamp  out  of  old  and  failing  hands,  only  to  put 
it  into  young  and  brave  ones,  who  will  not  falter  till  they 
reach  the  goal." 

Then  he  lies  back  again,  with  closed  eyes,  waiting  for 
more  facts  from  Claude. 

"How  beautiful!"  says  Claude.  "I  must  compliment 
you,  sir  —  to  see  the  child-like  heart  thus  still  beating  fresh 
beneath  the  honors  of  the  gray  head,  without  envy,  without 
vanity,  without  ambition,  welcoming  every  new  discovery, 
rejoicing  to  see  the  young  outstripping  them," 
45* 


584  LAST    CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

"  And  what  credit,  sir,  to  iis  ?  Our  knowledge  did  not 
belong  to  us,  but  to  Him  who  made  us,  and  the  universe  ; 
and  our  sons'  belonged  to  Him  likewise.  If  they  be  wiser 
than  their  teachers,  it  is  only  because  they,  like  their  teach- 
ers, have  made  His  testimonies  their  study.  .  When  we 
rejoice  in  the  progress  of  science,  we  rejoice  not  in  our- 
selves, not  in  our  children,  but  in  God  our  Instructor." 

And  all  the  while,  hidden  in  the  gloom  behind,  stands 
Grace,  her  arms  folded  over  her  bosom,  watching  every 
movement  of  the  old  man  ;  and  listening  too  to  every  word. 
She  can  understand  but  little  of  it ;  but  she  loves  to  hear 
it,  for  it  reminds  her  of  Tom  Thurnall.  Above  all  she  loves 
to  hear  about  the  microscope,  a  mystery  inseparable  in  her 
thoughts  from  him  who  first  showed  her  its  wonders. 

At  last  the  old  man  speaks  again,  — 

"  Ah  I  How  delighted  my  boy  will  be,  when  he  returns, 
to  find  that  so  much  has  been  done  during  his  absence  I  " 

Claude  is  silent  a  while,  startled. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  hear  me  speak  so  confidently  ? 
Well,  I  can  only  speak  as  I  feel.  I  have  had,  for  some 
days  past,  a  presentiment  —  you  will  think  me,  doubtless, 
weak  for  yielding  to  it.     1  am  not  superstitious." 

"Not  so,"  said  Claude,  "but  I  cannot  deny  that  such 
things  as  presentiments  may  be  possible.  However  mirac- 
ulous they  may  seem,  are  they  so  very  much  more  so  than 
the  daily  fact  ol  memory  ?  I  can  as  little  guess  why  we 
can  remember  the  past,  as  why  we  may  not,  at  times,  be 
able  to  foresee  the  future." 

"True.  You  speak,  if  not  like  a  physician,  yet  like  a 
metaphysician  ;  so  you  will  not  laugh  at  me,  and  compel 
the  weak  old  man  and  his  fancy  to  take  refuge  with  a  girl 
—  who  is  not  weak. -— Grace,  darling,  you  think  still  that 
he  is  coming  ?  " 

She  came  forward  and  leaned  over  him,  — 

"  Yes,"  she  half  whispered.  "  He  is  coming  soon  to  us ; 
or  else  we  are  soon  going  to  him.  It  may  mean  that,  sir. 
Perhaps  it  is  better  that  it  should." 

"  It  matters  little,  child,  if  he  be  near,  as  near  he  is.  1 
tell  you,  Mr.  Mellot,  this  conviction  has  become  so  intense 
during  the  last  week,  that  —  that  I  believe  I  should  not  be 
thrown  off  my  balance  if  he  entered  at  this  moment  ...  I 
feel  him  so  near  me,  sir,  that — that  I  could  swear,  did  1 
not  know  how  the  weak  brain  imitates  expected  sounds, 
that  I  heard  his  footstep  outside  now." 

"  I  heard  horses'  footsteps,"  says  Claude.  "Ah  1  there 
come  Stangrave  and  our  host." 


LAST    CHEISTMAS   EVE.  535 

"  I  heard  them  ;  but  I  heard  my  boy's  likewise,"  said  the 
old  man  quietly. 

The  next  minute  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  fanc}', 
as  the  two  hunters  entered,  and  Mark  began  open-mouthed 
as  usual,  — 

"  Well,  Ned  !  In  good  company,  eh  ?  That 's  right. 
Mortal  cold  I  am  !  We  shall  have  a  white  Christmas,  1  ex- 
pect.    Snow  's  coming." 

"  What  sport  ?  "  asks  the  doctor,  blandly. 

"  0,  nothing  new.  Bothered  about  Sidricstone  till  one. 
Got  away  at  last  with  an  old  fox,  and  over  the  downs  into 
the  vale.     I  think  Mr.  Stangrave  liked  it." 

"Mr.  Stangrave  likes  the  vale  better  than  the  vale  likes 
him.  I  have  fallen  into  two  brooks  following,  Claude,  to  the 
delight  of  all  the  desperate  Englishmen." 

"  0,  you  rode  straight  enough,  sir  !  You  must  pay  for 
your  fun  in  the  vale  ;  but  then  you  have  your  fun.  But 
there  were  a  good  many  falls  the  last  ten  minutes  ;  ground 
heavy,  and  pace  awful ;  old  Rat-tail  had  enough  to  do  to 
hold  his  own.  Saw  one  fellow  ride  bang  into  a  pollard- 
willow,  when  there  was  an  open  gate  close  to  him  —  cut  his 
cheek  open,  and  lay  ;  but  some  one  said  it  was  only  Smith, 
of  Ewebury,  so  I  rode  on." 

"I  hope  you  English  showed  more  pity  to  your  wounded 
friends  in  the  Crimea,"  quoth  Stangrave,  laughing.  "I 
wanted  to  stop  and  pick  him  up  ;  but  Mr.  Arrasworth  would 
not  hear  of  it." 

"  0,  sir,  if  it  had  been  a  stranger  Hke  you,  half  the  field 
would  have  been  round  you  in  a  minute  ;  but  Smith  d(^n't 
count ;  he  breaks  his  neck  on  purpose  three  days  a  week. 
By  the  by,  doctor,  got  a  good  story  of  him  for  you.  Sus- 
pected his  keepers  last  month.  Slips  out  of  bed  at  two  in 
the  morning,  into  his  own  covers,  and  blazes  away  for  an 
hour.  Nobody  comes.  Home  to  bed,  and  tries  the  same 
thing  next  night.  Not  a  soul  comes  near  him.  Next  morn- 
ing has  up  keepers,  watchers,  beaters,  the  whole  posse  ; 
and  '  Now,  you  rascals  !  I  've  been  poaching  my  own  covers 
two  nights  running,  and  you  've  been  all  drunk  in  bed. 
There  are  your  wages  to  the  last  penny  ;  and  vanish  !  I  'U 
be  my  own  keeper  henceforth  ;  and  never  let  me  see  your 
faces  again  !  " 

The  old  doctor  laughed  cherily.  "  Well,  but  did  you  kill 
your  fox  ?  " 

"  All  right  ;  but  it  was  a  burster,  — just  what  I  always 
tell  Mr.  Stangrave.  Afternoon  runs  are  good  runs  :  pretty 
Hure  of  an  empty  fox  and  a  good  scent  after  one  o'clock." 


536  LAST    CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

"Exactly,"  answered  a  fresh  voice  from  behind;  "and 
fox-hunting  is  an  epitome  of  human  life.  You  chop  or  lose 
your  first  two  or  three  ;  but  keep  up  your  pluck,  and  you  '11 
run  into  one  before  sun-down  ;  and  I  seem  to  have  run  into 
a  whole  eartliful  !  " 

All  looked  round  ;  for  all  knew  that  voice. 

Yes !  There  he  was,  in  bodily  flesh  and  blood  ;  thin,  sal- 
tow,  bearded  to  tlie  eyes,  dressed  in  ragged  sailor's  clothes  ; 
but  Tom  himself. 

Grace  uttered  a  long,  low,  soft,  half-laughing  cry,  full  of 
the  delicious  agony  of  sudden  relief;  a  cry  as  of  a  mother 
when  her  child  is  born  :  and  then  slipped  from  the  room  past 
the  unheeding  Tom,  who  had  no  eyes  but  for  his  father. 
Straight  up  to  the  old  man  he  went,  took  both  his  hands, 
and  spoke  in  the  old  clieerful  voice,  — 

"  Well,  my  dear  old  daddy  !  So  you  seem  to  have  ex- 
pected me  ;  and  gathered,  I  suppose,  all  my  friends  to  bid 
me  welcome.  I  'm  afraid  I  have  made  you  very  anxious  ; 
but  it  was  not  my  fault ;  and  I  knew  you  would  be  certain 
I  should  come  at  last,  eh  ?  " 

"  My  son  1  my  son  !  Let  me  feel  whether  thou  be  my 
very  son  Esau  or  not !  "  murmured  the  old  man,  finding  half- 
playful  expression  in  the  words  of  Scripture,  for  feelings 
beyond  his  failing  powers. 

Tom  knelt  down  ;  and  the  old  man  passed  his  hands  in 
fiilence  over  and  over  the  forehead,  and  face,  and  beard, 
while  all  stood  silent. 

Mark  Armsworth  burst  out  blubbering  like  a  great  boy  : 

"  1  said  so  !  I  always  said  so  !  The  devil  could  not  kill 
him,  and  God  would  n't !  " 

"  You  won't  go  away  again,  dear  boy  ?  I  'm  getting  old 
—  and  —  and  forgetful ;  and  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it 
again,  you  see." 

Tom  saw  that  the  old  man's  powers  were  failing.  "  Never 
again,  so  long  as  I  live,  daddy  !  "  said  he  ;  and  then,  look- 
ing round,  — "  1  think  that  we  are  too  many  for  my  father. 
I  will  come  and  shake  hands  with  you  all  presently." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  doctor.  "  You  forget  that  I  cannot 
Bee  you,  and  so  must  only  listen  to  you.  It  will  be  a  de- 
light to  hear  your  voice  and  theirs  ;  —  they  all  love  you." 

A  few  moments  of  breathless  congratulation  followed, 
during  which  Mark  had  seized  Tom  by  both  his  shoulders, 
and  held  him  admiringly  at  arms'  length. 

"Look  at  him,  Mr.  Mellot !  Mr.  Stangrave  !  Look  at 
him  1     As  they  said  of  Liberty  Wilkes,  you  might  rob  him, 


LAST    CHRISTMAS    EVE.  537 

Btrip  him,  and  hit  him  over  London  Bridge  ;  and  you  'd  find 
him  the  next  day  in  the  same  place,  with  a  laced  coat,  a 
I'word  by  his  side,  and  money  in  his  pocket !  But  how  did 
you  come  in  without  our  knowing  ?  " 

"I  waited  outside,  afraid  of  what  I  might  hear  —  for  how 
could  I  tell  ?  "  said  he,  lowering  his  voice  ;  "  but  when  I 
saw  you  go  in,  I  knew  all  was  right,  and  followed  you  :  and 
when  I  heard  my  father  laugh,  I  knew  that  he  could  bear  a 
little  surprise.  But,  Stangrave,  did  you  say  ?  Ah  !  this  is 
too  delightful,  old  fellow  !    How 's  Marie  and  the  children  ?  " 

Stangrave,  who  was  very  uncertain  as  to  how  Tom  would 
receive  him,  had  been  about  to  make  his  amende  honorable 
in  a  fashion  graceful,  magnificent,  and,  as  he  expressed  it 
afterwards  laughingly  to  Thurnall  himself,  "  altogether 
highfelutin  ;  "  but  whatsoever  chivalrous  and  courtly  words 
had  arranged  themselves  upon  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  were 
so  utterly  upset  by  Tom's  matter-of-fact  bonhommie,  and  by 
the  cool  way  in  which  he  took  for  granted  the  fact  of  his 
marriage,  that  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  caught  both  Tom's 
hands  in  his,  — 

"It  is  delightful !  and  all  it  needs  to  make  it  perfect  is  to 
have  Marie  and  the  children  here."    • 

"  How  many .''  "  asked  Tom. 

"Two." 

"Is  she  as  beautiful  as  ever  ? " 

"More  so,  I  think." 

"  I  dare  say  you  're  right ;  you  ought  to  know  best, 
certainly." 

"  You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  She  is  in  London  at  this 
moment." 

"  Tom  !  "  says  his  father,  who  has  been  sitting  quietly, 
his  face  covered  in  his  handkerchief,  listening  to  all,  while 
holy  tears  of  gratitude  steal  down  his  face. 

"Sir!" 

"  You  have  not  spoken  to  Grace  yet !  " 

"  Grace  ?  "  cries  Tom,  in  a  very  different  tone  from  that 
in  which  he  had  yet  spoken. 

"  Grace  Harvey,  my  boy.  She  was  in  the  room  when  you 
came  in." 

"  Grace  ?  Grace  ?     What  is  she  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Nursing  him,  like  an  angel  as  she  is  !  "  said  Mark. 

"  She  is  my  daughter  now,  Tom  ;  and  has  been  these 
twelve  months  past." 

Tom  was  silent,  as  one  astonished. 

**  If  she   is   not,  she   will   be   soon,"    said   he   quietly, 


538  LAST   CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

between  his  clenched  teeth.  "  Gentlemen,  if  you  'II  excuse 
me  for  five  minutes,  and  see  to  my  father;" — and  he 
walked  straig-ht  out  of  tlie  room,  closing  the  door  behind 
him  —  to  find  Grace  waiting  in  the  passage. 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  stopping  to  and  fro, 
her  hands  and  face  all  but  convulsed  ;  her  left  hand  over  her 
bosom,  clutching  at  her  dress,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
just  disarranged  ;  her  right  drawn  back,  holding  something  ; 
her  lips  parted,  struggling  to  speak  ;  her  great  eyes  opened 
to  preternatural  wideness,  fixed  on  him  with  an  intensity 
of  eagerness  ;  —  was  she  mad  ? 

At  last  words  bubbled  forth  :  "  There  !  there  1  There  it 
is  !  —  the  belt !  — your  belt !     Take  it  !  take  it,  I  say  I  " 

He  stood  silent  and  wondering  ;  she  thrust  it  into  his  hand. 

"  Take  it  1  I  have  carried  it  for  you  —  worn  it  next  my 
heart,  till  it  has  all  but  eaten  into  my  heart.  To  Varna, 
and  you  were  not  there  !  —  Scutari,  Balaklava,  and  you 
were  not  there  !  —  I  found  it,  only  a  week  after!  —  I  told 
you  I  should  ;  and  you  were  gone  !  —  Cruel,  not  to  wait ! 
And  Mr.  Armsworth  has  the  money — every  farthing  —  and 
the  gold  ;  —  he  has  had  it  these  two  years  !  —  1  would  give 
you  the  belt  myself;  and  now  I  have  done  it,  and  the  snake 
is  unclasped  from  my  heart  at  last,  at  last,  at  last !  " 

Her  arms  dropped  by  her  side,  and  she  burst  into  an 
agony  of  tears. 

Tom  caught  her  in  his  arms  ;  but  she  put  him  back,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face  again. 

"  Promise  me  !  "  she  said,  in  alow,  clear  voice  ;  "  promise 
me  this  one  thing  only,  as  you  are  a  gentleman  ;  as  you 
have  a  man's  pity,  a  man's  gratitude,  in  you  "  — 

"  Anything  !  " 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  never  ask,  or  seek  to  know, 
who  had  that  belt." 

"  I  promise  ;  but,  Grace  I  — " 

"  Then  my  work  is  over,"  said  she  in  a  calm  collected 
voice.  "  Amen.  So  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace.  Good-by,  Mr.  Thurnall.  I  must  go  and  pack  up 
my  few  things  now.     You  will  forgive  and  forget  ?  " 

"  Grace  I  "  cried  Tom  ;  "  stay  !  "  and  he  girdled  her  in  a 
grasp  of  iron.  "  You  and  I  never  part  more  in  this  life, 
perhaps  not  in  all  lives  to  come  !  " 

"  Me  ?    I  ?  —  let  me  go  1     I  am  not  worthy  of  you  !  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  once  already  ;  —  the  only  folly  which 
ever  came  out  of  those  sweet  lips.  No  !  Grace.  I  love 
vou,  as  man  can  love  but  once  ;  and  you  shall  not  refuse 


LAST   CHEISTMAS   EVE.  539 

me  I  You  will  not  have  the  heart,  Grace !  You  will  not 
dare,  Grace  !  For  you  have  begun  the  work  ;  and  yon 
must  finish  it." 

"  Work  ?     What  work  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  "How  should  I  ?  L  want 
you  to  tell  me  that." 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  puzzled.  His  old  self-confident 
look  seemed  strangely  past  away. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  because  I  love  you.  I  don't 
like  to  show  it  to  them  ;  but  I  've  been  frightened,  Grace, 
for  the  first  time  in  ray  life." 

She  paused  for  an  explanation  ;  but  she  did  not  struggle 
to  escape  from  him. 

"  Frightened  —  beat —  run  to  earth  myself,  though  I  talked 
so  bravely  of  running  others  to  earth  just  now.  Grace, 
I  've  been  in  prison  !  " 

"  In  prison?     In  a  Russian  prison  ?     0,  Mr.  Thurnall  !  " 

"Ay,  Grace,  I  'd  tried  everything  but  that ;  and  I  could 
not  stand  it.  Death  was  a  joke  to  that.  Not  to  be  able  to 
get  out !  To  rage  up  and  down  for  hours  like  a  wild 
beast ;  —  long  to  fly  at  one's  jailer  and  tear  his  heart  out ; 
—  beat  one's  head  against  the  wall  in  the  hope  of  knocking 
one's  brains  out ;  —  anything  to  get  rid  of  that  horrid 
notion,  night  and  day  over  one  —  I  can't  get  out  I  " 

Grace  had  never  seen  him  so  excited. 

"  But  you  are  safe  now,"  said  she  soothingly.  "  0,  those 
horrid  Russians !  " 

"  But  it  was  not  Russians  !  — If  it  had  been  I  could  have 
borne  it.  That  was  all  in  my  bargain,  —  the  fair  chance  of 
war  ;  but  to  be  shut  up  by  a  mistake  1  — at  the  very  outset, 
tool  —  by  a  boorish  villain  of  a  khan,  on  a  drunken  sus' 
picion  ;  —  a  fellow  whom  I  was  trying  to  serve,  and  who 
could  n't,  or  would  n't,  or  dare  n't  understand  me  —  0, 
Grace,  I  was  caught  in  my  own  trap  !  I  went  out  full 
blown  with  self-conceit.  Never  was  any  one  so  cunning  as 
I  was  to  be  !  Such  a  game  as  I  was  going  to  play,  and 
make  my  fortune  by  it !  And  this  brute  to  stop  me  short -~ 
to  make  a  fool  of  me  —  to  keep  me  there  eighteen  months 
threatening  to  cut  my  head  otF  once  a  quax'ter,  and  would  n't 
understand  me,  let  me  talk  with  the  tongue  of  the  old  ser- 
pent !  " 

"  He  did  not  stop  you  ;  God  stopped  you  !  " 

"  You  're  right,  Grace  ;  I  saw  that  at  last  1  I  found  out 
that  I  had  been  trying  for  years  which  was  the  stronger, 
Sod  or  I  ;  I  found  out  I  had  been  trying  whether  I  could 


540  LAST    CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

not  do  well  enough  without  Ilim  ;  and  there  I  found  that  1 
could  not,  Grace  ;  — could  not !  I  felt  like  a  child  who  had 
marched  off  from  home,  fancying  it  can  find  its  way,  and  id 
lost  at  once.  I  felt  like  a  lost  child  in  Australia  once,  for 
one  moment ;  but  not  as  I  felt  in  that  prison  ;  for  I  had  not 
heard  you,  Grace,  then.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  a 
Father  in  heaven,  who  had  been  looking  after  mo,  when  1 
fancied  that  I  was  looking  after  myself;  —  I  don't  half 
believe  it  now  —  if  1  did,  1  should  not  have  lost  my  nerve  as 
1  have  done  !  —  Grace,  I  dare  hardly  stir  about  now,  lest 
some  harm  should  come  to  me.  I  fancy,  at  every  turn,  what 
if  that  chimney  fell  ?  what  if  that  horse  kicked  out  'i  —  and, 
Grace,  you,  and  you  only,  can  cure  me  of  my  new  coward- 
ice. I  said,  in  that  prison,  and  all  the  way  home,  —  If  1 
can  but  find  her  !  —  let  me  but  see  her  —  ask  her  —  let  her 
teach  me  ;  and  I  shall  be  sure  !  Let  her  teach  me,  and  I 
shall  be  brave  again  I    Teach  me,  Grace  !  and  forgive  me  !  " 

Grace  was  looking  at  him  with  her  great  soft  eyes  open- 
ing slowly,  like  a  startled  hind's,  as  if  the  wonder  and 
delight  were  too  great  to  be  taken  in  at  once.  The  last 
words  unlocked  her  lips. 

"  Forgive  you  ?     What  ?     Do  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"You?  It  is  I  am  the  brute  —  ever  to  have  suspected 
you  I  My  conscience  told  me  all  along  I  was  a  brute  1  And 
you  —  have  you  not  proved  it  to  me  in  this  last  minute, 
Grace  ?  — proved  to  me  that  I  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  the 
dust  from  off  your  feet  ?  " 

Grace  lay  silent  in  his  arms  ;  but  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him  ;  her  hands  were  folded  on  her  bosom  ;  her  lips 
moved  as  if  in  prayer. 

He  put  back  her  long  tresses  tenderly,  and  looked  into 
her  deep,  glorious  eyes. 

"  There  !  I  have  told  you  all  !  Will  you  forgive  my 
baseness  ;  and  take  me,  and  teach  me  about  this  Father  in 
heaven,  through  poverty  and  wealth,  for  better,  for  worse, 
as  my  wife  — my  wife  ?  " 

She  leapt  up  at  him  suddenly,  as  if  waking  from  a  dream, 
and  wreathed  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  0,  Mr.  Thurnall  !  my  dear,  brave,  wise,  wonderful  Mr. 
Thurnall  !  come  home  again  !  — home  to  God  !  and  home  to 
nie  !  I  am  not  worthy  !  Too  much  happiness,  too  much,  — 
too  much; — but  you  will  forgive,  will  you  not,  —  and 
forget,  — forget  ?  " 

And  so  the  old  heart  passed  away  from  Thomas  Thurnall ; 
and  instead  of  it  grew  up  a  heart  like  his  father's  ;  even 
the  heart  of  a  little  child. 


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